


How Does The Garden Grow

by ajfessler



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins Feels, Bilbo's Relatives are shit, Bilbo's banished, Branding, Characters assuming things that didn't happen, Cultural Differences, Cultural Misunderstandings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Protective Thorin, Someone broke the hobbit and the company is going to fix it, That's why there is an implied tag in this bag of cats, Thorin-centric, Violence in Chapter 3, but not from Erebor, but not really, not very discriptive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajfessler/pseuds/ajfessler
Summary: A rider to Erebor in the middle of the night brings to light that not all has been well in the Shire.





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin woke with a start, twisting to face the commotion at his door with the knife he couldn’t stop himself from keeping under his pillow. Long-held habits from hard learned lessons he couldn’t put to rest. Even though Thorin logically knew that he was in the safest room in the heart of Erebor. 

Hovering in his bedchamber doorway was the dwarrowdam Fona, who insisted that Thorin was King and therefore needed to be served. He had given up trying to dissuade her. Flipping the knife to a less threatening position, Thorin pressed the side of his wrist to his forehead and took a deep breath. Breathing slightly ragged from fright. When he felt he’d calmed down enough to not to snap at her in a temper Thorin asked, “Yes?”

He watched her hesitate a breath, the sapphire beads in her dainty little beard bobbing back and forth before she blurted, “You’re gonna be needed in the front hall shortly, sire.” 

A glance at the clock on the mantel showed it to be barely an hour past the midnight. Thorin turned an unimpressed look at Fona before asking as he threw the covers back to begin reaching for clothing, unconcerned for his nudity. “Trouble?” 

Yanking on his breeches, Thorin started looking for a shirt as he bound the stays tight. The only response he got was a squeak. Closing his eyes to breathe, Thorin prayed for patience. This crush of Fona’s was getting out of hand if she was going to insist on being the one to rouse him in the middle of the night. Wrenching on a shirt, Thorin glared in her direction and asked a second time, voice sharper with annoyance, “Fona. Trouble?” 

With his head not stuffed in a shirt, he noticed her give a negative head shake. Waving his hand for her to continue, Thorin sat down at the foot of the bed to tug on his boots. He heard her clear her throat before telling him, “We had a rider from Mirkwood and a thrush from Esgaroth both giving a report of a very fast rider heading this way. The Elves said it was Gandalf the Grey, but Esgaroth was unable to confirm. There hadn’t been a report from Dale when I was sent to rouse you, sire.” 

He wished Dis, his sister, would stop pressing him towards the lass. Not only was he old enough to be her father, but his tastes also did not run towards the fairer of his race. Never had and Thorin had thought Dis had known that. With a nod to Fona, Thorin strode past his armaments and out into the newly declared royal wing. Immediately, Dwalin was by his side. They exchanged nods before making their way towards the entrance hall. 

He wasn’t surprised that Dwalin said nothing about his lack of dress. In the first days as King Under the Mountain was to negotiate a monthly ‘frank’ conversation with Bard and Thranduil. It had taken nearly a year, but Erebor’s two closest neighbors were real allies. It had helped, especially when Thorin ran into administrative issues where Balin and the Iron Hills advisors Dain had left butted heads. The ‘frank’ conversations gave him a second sounding board. Several of his decisions that the Erebor dwarves thought the height of genius in diplomacy had come from those discussions. 

The side effect of good counsel had been a trust. And so Thorin would believe the report from Mirkwood because Thranduil (once appeased by the return of the Starlight gems) had been beyond fair. Shockingly fair, in light of everything. 

Charging down one set of stairs, only to go around a corner and up a different set, they arrived just in time to see the final squad of guards take the position. There were four, perhaps overkill for a single rider. The next moment saw the gate of Erebor swing open. Horseshoes on stone sounded in the next breath. The beast itself storming through the gate immediately after. 

Thorin watched the tension bleed out of Dwalin’s shoulders with relief when it became apparent that the rider was Gandalf the Grey. Moving down to the entrance proper, Thorin almost stopped dead. There was a figure seated in front of Gandalf. From behind his left shoulder, Thorin heard a sharp inhale from Dwalin. That was a visage they both knew well. Sitting there was Bilbo Baggins. But not a Bilbo that Thorin had ever seen before. Even through all their adventures.

This hobbit was pale, almost gray in color and didn’t look anyone in the eye. The once golden curls fell flat, lifeless, and straw colored. Clothing ratty and ill-fitting. Almost reminiscent of their escape of Lake Town. It hit Thorin as he was looking the Hobbit over that it had been three years since that unexpected party in Bag End. It broke his heart to see that the time apart had not been kind. 

In tandem, Thorin reached up with Dwalin to help bring the hobbit down. Worry spiraled painfully through him as Bilbo tumbled down without comment, expression, or acknowledgment. Something was very wrong. Thorin’s gaze shot to Gandalf, and he asked, “What happened?” 

The wizard gave him a stern look before demanding, “Quickly, somewhere safe and warm. I would not have him further compromised.” 

Slanting a look to Dwalin reassured Thorin that his lifelong friend felt the same way he did. Whatever news Gandalf brought, Bilbo would be protected. With a nod, Thorin declared, “Right, this way.”

A whispered command to Dwalin got him another nod and the burly dwarf making himself scarce to locate Nori. Turning back, Thorin took note that Gandalf had the hobbit in his arms. Concern churned in his gut as Thorin pressed his lips together to keep from demanding again to know what had happened. If he was aware of anything regarding Gandalf, it was that the wizard would not speak his mind until things were arranged to his requirements.

The trip back to his rooms was even shorter than the one down. There was an urgency driving his steps that Thorin hadn’t felt previously. Fona popped into being as they entered the main doors. Her ridiculous beads were glinting in the light. Thorin gave her a negative shake of his head to the question he could see in her eyes. He didn’t need her presence and didn’t require anything from the kitchens. He was pleased when she nodded in return and scurried to open his doors. 

Gandalf followed him in and then brushed beyond to install the hobbit in Thorin’s bed. The glance, he got of neatly made sheets and blankets, Thorin rolled his eyes. Apparently, Fona had been worried. She always cleaned when her nerves were fraught. Thorin tolerated the habit permitting she didn’t touch his papers.

Sighing, Thorin leaned against his desk; arms crossed over his chest. Prepared to wait until Gandalf gave him some explanation as to why Bilbo Baggins was no longer hale nor in the Shire that was the Hobbits rightful place. Thorin stared into the fire and wondered if the overwhelming feeling of impending bad news was something his kingdom was ready to handle. If he was honest, Thorin was far more worried than he thought wise to let on. And since the gold-sickness, Thorin tried his best to be brutally honest and open about the things that were going on his head with his allies and most trusted advisors.

The scuff of a leather boot on stone brought his attention back to Gandalf as the wizard pulled the bedroom door closed with a weary sigh of his own. Under the direct scrutiny of the wizard, Thorin put in the effort masked any worry or concern he felt. This would be a negotiation unlike any he had engaged in since those first weeks after the defeat of the orcs. There had been an exceptional amount of yelling in those days.

There was a silent standoff for several ticks of the clock on Thorin’s desk before Gandalf drop into a chair. Thorin stayed himself from reacting. He was in the position of power in this meeting. Unlike any time before, Thorin finally had the advantage over the wizard. He needed information, and as he’d decided in the look to Dwalin Thorin needed Gandalf to judge that it would be best for Bilbo to reside in the stone fortress. The rest could be worked out once the wizard had departed.

“I have guesses, mostly. The kindly neighbor who flagged me down on my way through the Shire called it iron sowing. From what little he was willing to divulge it seems to be a form of banishment.”

Iron sowing. A derogatory, slang term that Thorin had never heard used outside of his dwarven kin and very rarely at that. With any hope, the meaning had been warped with the transfer through cultures. For there was no force in the world that would cause Thorin to wish upon the little hobbit an experience of degradation and helplessness that an unwanted coupling brought. The few glimpses of Bilbo Thorin had seen, rushed vividly to mind, and horror slivered like ice through his veins as the realization that the dwarven definition was likely what happened.

Pressing his eyes closed, Thorin pushed aside his own related experiences with effort as he demanded, “What is it you wish of Erebor then? What is it you think we can provide that others cannot?” 

“I wish you to show a measure of concern for one of your company if nothing else.” Was the immediate and testy response that Thorin received. It was worthless. Concern for his Company was a fact of life, and Thorin would see it given beyond anything Gandalf thought possible. What the dwarf didn’t know was what Gandalf expected to be given. So in response, Thorin merely raised an eyebrow and waited. 

As King Under the Mountain, Thorin couldn’t afford to bow down to the demands of anyone without good reason. The decision that Bilbo Baggins wasn’t leaving Erebor anytime soon was already decided. Pending Bilbo’s wishes of course. Thorin wouldn’t impose his will on the Hobbit ever again unless there were no other options. Not even for a wizard. 

Gandalf huffed at him before capitulating and explaining, “I do not know what Bilbo needs. I do not know what has befallen him to give you direction. Lord Elrond assures me that his body has been healed as much as allowed. His mind and spirit are that which I am most concerned with, for I fear this has done irreparable damage. Far greater than even your own transgression of his person.” 

Thorin gave a nod, not rising to the barb. He was well aware that there was an immense debt owed Bilbo by his family. Thorin had made peace both with the debt itself and that it was unlikely there would be a chance to repay. The information was good but still didn’t answer his question. With a sigh, Thorin requested, “Be plain for once Gandalf. What are you expecting from Erebor that the elves or hobbits could not provide for Master Baggins?” 

It felt cruel to stress that point, expressly as the wizard seemed to wilt before saying, “I am hoping that the strength of the dwarves will buoy his spirits while the fast friendship of the Company will fill in the cracks in his mind that hobbits have placed.” 

Thorin frowned at the words. It seemed like Gandalf was under the impression that Bilbo would not be welcome in the Shire. Tugging at his beard, which he was finally allowing to grow, Thorin asked, “What do you mean? You mentioned banishment before, are you to have me believe that he is no longer welcome in the Shire?” 

Thorin wished he could have been surprised by the nod which followed. Except in his heart of hearts, Thorin had known. He had spent much of the two hundred years of his exile traveling in all corners of the map and had seen and bore much in the ways of hardship. Much in the way of dishonor, and had sacrificed much of their traditions along the way. With a sinking dread, Thorin realized that the thirteen dwarves of Erebor might be the only beings in Middle Earth with the experiences of heart which would allow a connection with Bilbo’s experiences. 

More so in that moment than ever before Thorin was glad Balin had pressed him incessantly to dissolve his angry words of banishment he had given Bilbo on the battlements. With a mental note to ensure that his will was put on paper for continuity, Thorin remarked with an affected carelessness, “The banishment has been revoked, he’s welcome here. You are well aware of this.”

That didn’t seem to be what Gandalf was looking for from him though as the wizard gave him a disgruntled look before saying, “Oh, delightful. Welcome. How reassuring. And I should trust that is enough?”

Thorin gave a sharp smile replying, “What other option do you have? You’ve said yourself. The Elves have no further recourse to heal him, and the hobbits are the cause of his pain. I suppose you could take him to the men but which set to trust? The Rohirrim? Gondor? Neither of which you have any distinct ties with and so cannot manipulate to your whims. I have a responsibility to an entire kingdom.” Thorin uncrossed his arms and grabbed the edge of his desk. “So I’ll ask again, what is it that you want from Erebor?”

“Confound you, Thorin Oakenshield and the unreasonableness of dwarves. I want you to protect him, from himself if necessary. It is my hope that you will somehow pull off a miracle and piece him back together. How you’ll do that I’ve no idea. But between yourself and Bilbo, you’ve got a full measure of cunning to work with, so I’ve little doubt it can be managed. Permitted I can ensure that you care enough to try.”

Thorin nearly smiled in triumph. A straight enough answer. Giving Gandalf a nod of acknowledgment, Thorin conceded, “The Hobbit will want for nothing within these walls.” 

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” Was the immediate response from the wizard. 

Thorin gave another nod in response before informing Gandalf gravely, “I cannot promise that we can mend what has been broken. There are times when a piece becomes flawed beyond repair, and the smith is required to melt it down and start over. That is life. I can promise that Bilbo will want for nothing and if there is an ember of life that still fights we will nurture it back to a steady blaze.” 

Watching the emotions play over Gandalf’s expression in response to his words Thorin wondered if he had said too much. Instead of worrying it in his mind, Thorin counted the ticks of his clock. When he got to twenty Gandalf squared his shoulders and declared, “Then I suppose that will have to suffice. Now, I must ride. There are matters which can not be allowed to lie untended. I leave in your care my burglar, do try not to cause him further harm?”

Thorin rolled his eyes and stated firmly, “Master Baggins will come to no harm by my hand, and I will do everything I can to ensure none other gets a chance either.”

Thorin only relaxed his stance when Gandalf had finished gathering his hat and staff. Once the door had shut behind the trailing gray robes, Thorin allowed himself a moment of congratulations as he slouched. The sound of the door opening again forced him upright before he caught sight of Dwalin and Nori. 

Dwalin’s scowl force a smile to Thorin’s lips before he was asked, “He stay?” 

Thorin released a deep breath again the weight of the world settling on his shoulders and confirmed, “Yes, we have custody.” 

“How bad?” The next question to be thrown in his direction. 

Thorin shoved a hand through his hair grimacing when he realized the braids would need to be redone before morning audience and said, “Unconfirmed but best expect the worst. Gandalf mentioned that a neighbor said he’d been iron sown. I’ve no idea if a hobbit has the same idea of that as a dwarf.” 

“Based on what’s been seen so far, aye I’d say it’s a damn sight the same.” Dwalin returned. 

Thorin had shrugged before he said, “I want to know who dared touch him if only to ensure they never get a chance to step foot past the gates to try again. He will be safe here if it's the only thing I can do.” 

The dwarves in front of him had nodded before Nori told him, “I’ll have a trust dwarrow in the next caravan out. We’ll have names and faces by the time she returns.” 

Thorin wanted the information sooner, wanted it immediately. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and wrestled his temper under control. They weren’t wizards and couldn’t command the Eagles. Forcing himself to maintain his calm, Thorin said, “Good, do that. In the meantime, inform the guard any hobbits who make it to our gates are to be taken into custody but not harmed pending royal review. See if Dale will aid in waylaying any Hobbits as well. We will keep everyone far away save the Company.” 

Nori and Dwalin gave him a little half bow before leaving the rooms. Fona slipped in as they left and asked, “Will you want a set of rooms made up for your guest?” 

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. With a negative shake of his head, Thorin told her, “It will keep until the light of day, and we’ll revisit this conversation then. Will you send a note around to Balin that I’ll want to talk to him first thing?” 

Her nod was enthusiastic before she darted out of the room. 

Walking as softly as steel toed boots would permit on stone floor Thorin drifted towards his bedroom. The figure nestled under the covers seemed so small, fragile. If memory served, Bilbo was barely a head shorter than his own height. It was hard to see, hard to acknowledge the violence that had brought the hobbit to such a state. Shaking his head, Thorin tugged his boots back off. He made an effort to set them down as gently as possible. Good dwarven boots were never quiet.

Moving over to the dressing table where the combs and brushes Fona had decided he needed were kept, Thorin sat. It was soothing to take the disheveled braids out and start the tedious task of combing out the tangles. He made a face at the beads when it came time to place the designs back in. They were tedious and elaborate, and Thorin acknowledged that threading beads in a braid behind your head were an absolute challenge initially far beyond his skill. No longer could Thorin place just a few simple three plait braids. 

There was the thick one with the beads of his deeds, which always went in first as it had the most beads. The next were the two which held the Durin beads to mark him as the rightful king. Next came one on the right of his head for his family that had fallen which now held five beads no larger than seed pearls. The one on the left was for balance and other than the bead to tie it was left empty. Custom dictated that only a courting braid be worn directly in front of the left ear. 

Thorin had worn the two in front of his ears nearly his entire life and refused to stop now just because he was King Under the Mountain. Properties be damned, and his sister be damned. 

He was working a scented oil onto the braids to smooth any flyaways down when he caught eyes watching him in the mirror. Dwarven custom held it as taboo to watch someone work their braids, and to touch them was the height of insult. Unless one was a lover or very close family. The inappropriateness of the situation sent a thrill through him that sent his pulse racing. Bilbo was the first being to watch him deal with the braids since he had been deemed competent enough to do them himself as a child.

If it had been anyone else, Thorin might have had a slew of sharp words for them. To be sure Fona had felt the brunt of his tongue when she had offered to bind them back out of his face in the beginning. The face in his mirror though held fascination and awe, almost reverence. It was such a bright flare of life compared to the dull obedience from Gandalf’s arrival that Thorin couldn’t find it within him to be offended, nor did he particularly feel exposed as he would have expected from being watched at such a personal habit. He kept watching as he put in the final twists to pin the loose braids to his deeds and hold all of his hair out of his face. It looked very impressive, and Thorin had gotten proficient enough that they were comfortable as well. 

Setting everything to rights on the dresser Thorin moved to pad out into his office space. Planning on tackling yet more paperwork while he had a breadth of time on his hands. Gloin’s treasury reports would be amusing enough to keep him engaged until it was time to dress for the day. Except a soft rasp of a voice stopped him.

“I’m sorry.” 

Turning Thorin crossed his arms and set his shoulder into the door frame before asking, “Whatever for?”

He never would have expected the answer he received when Bilbo said, “For being imposed on you.” 

Thorin should have expected it. When Bilbo had left Thorin, and his sister-sons were hanging on to life by a thread. There wasn’t anyone with the authority or trust to speak on his behalf. Moving back into the room Thorin settled down on the bed and told the hobbit gently, “You are not an imposition, and you are welcome here until the line of Durin no longer rules Erebor’s halls.” 

Reaching out and taking Bilbo’s ankle into his hand was a calculated risk as Thorin really didn’t know what had happened to Bilbo. It was entirely possible that Thorin’s touch would spark panic. He waited just long enough to ensure no negative repercussions before saying, “Sleep, Master Hobbit. You are safe.”

Without another word, Thorin stood up and headed off for his reports and his uncomfortable desk chair. Except once he sat down, even Gloin’s dry humor couldn’t grab his attention. Thorin found his attention wandering back to Bilbo, and after reading the first paragraph, twice the papers were cast aside. With a huff, Thorin pulled out his engraving tools and went back to working on the little blocks that would become figurines for the miniature version of the memorial being planned for those lost to the initial dragon attack and the battle on the doorstep. It was easy to lose himself in such work, especially when he worked with pewter. No need to worry about getting lost in greed for the metal.

Erebor had a series of windows and reflection panels set high up in the mountain that caught the sunlight and sent it throughout the mountain. Thorin had always loved them best out of all the advances the mountain had to offer. Watching the beams bounce down and around has fascinated his childish imagination. He’d never found anything from the earth that compared to the graceful beauty presented every morning. Thorin had attempted once he had gained his journeymanship to created delicate pieces of silver and mithril jewelry to recreate it. His first life lesson had come when Thror, his grandfather, had discovered his designs. There were scars left from that life lesson. Dwarves were not elves, and no son of Durin would create anything that looked like their fiddly foppish work. 

It was rare since dwarves returned to Erebor that Thorin had gotten a moment to watch the light filter down. 

The morning after the arrival of Bilbo became on of those rare mornings. So with the door to his rooms cracked, that he might hear if his guest started moving around, Thorin stood on the royal balcony and watched dawn come to Erebor. Balin coming to stand beside him in silence wasn’t a surprise. 

Sometime later, Balin asked, “How do you wish to be advised this morning?” 

Thorin’s smirk twitched the corners of his mouth upwards before he replied, “The decree absolving Master Baggins banishment, is there a way a copy can be made in time for lunch?” 

“Oh aye, depending on the why of course. You’ve not been particularly interested in that decree previously.” Was Balin’s congenial response. 

Rolling his shoulders, Thorin explained. “We had a visitor in Gandalf the Grey early this morning and are now host to our burglar until the hobbit decides otherwise.” 

“Hmm,” Thorin heard before Balin corrected him, “You mean your burglar. You might have everyone else fooled, perhaps even yourself, but I’m no spring chicken, and I’ve seen those looks you used to give him many a time before.”

Thorin felt a blush tinge his cheeks and knew that Balin spoke correct enough. Bilbo had wriggled his way past Thorin’s armor. It happened the moment the Hobbit had stood in front of the Defiler in defense of him. It was more bravery than anyone had expected. From that moment Thorin had seen the hobbit in a new light. Every action and comment had taken on new and hidden meanings. Bilbo getting them out of Mirkwood safely, Bilbo vouching for him to the Master of Laketown. Find the hidden stairs, figuring out the riddle of the hidden door. Facing the dragon alone. 

The dragon. 

That was where things had started going wrong. The moment the back door opened reality corrupted for Thorin. And instead of the triumphant return, there was madness, and anger, greed. Later conversations brought him to the conclusion that it was probably the air. Thorin had always been sensitive to the smell of gold so picking out dragon warped gold from stale air ripe with decomposition wouldn’t have been a challenge. 

Rushing down to try and save Bilbo had only compounded the dragon smell, and at first sight of the vast stretch treasure, all he could see was gold. All he wanted was the Arkenstone, no matter what or who stood in his way. 

Rubbing his nose, Thorin replied, “Whatever might have been wrought has been thoroughly ruined. If friendship can be restored, true friendship, not deathbed confessions then I will be content.” 

From the quality of the silence, Balin didn’t believe him. Which Thorin accepted. His words were only truth, perhaps more so at that moment than any other. Turning to face Balin, Thorin said, “He has suffered enough. He has had his home, his life, his family and people stripped from him. If Dwalin and I guess, correctly he has also been physically assaulted, but we have no idea how extensively. Gandalf’s words were healed as much as allowed. What I want is meaningless, and that’s how it will stay until Bilbo changes things.”

He watched Balin nod before his old friend clasped his shoulder and said “I’ll have that decree to you by lunch and I’ll clear your schedule for the next two days. Go temper his pain with your patience. Fili can handle any emergencies.” 

Thorin nodded back and walked back to his rooms to slip inside.


	2. Chapter 2

There were memories hidden in Thorin’s soul that he didn’t think anyone but a very select few trusted individuals had any idea regarding. Dark memories of a time when his people were little more than scavengers. Taking the refuse of cities that shunned their very presence to eke out life for just a bit longer. Things had gotten particularly bad after Azanulbizar when both his grandfather and father had been lost. Thorin was ill prepared to lead his people, let alone lead his people who had no home and were starving.

He had been full of willful pride and princely arrogance in those days. Unwilling to compromise. That his attitude hadn’t lasted long was little consolation for the losses faced in the first winter of his reign. Thorin had pleaded with the Dwarven Lords to allow his people into their cities. They had refused. Blaming his grandfather’s sickness on the entirety of Erebor. Of all of them only Dain, then newly appointed with a voice without any weight, had done anything. The Iron Hill’s had taken as many refugees as they could and provided food for those they couldn’t. It hadn’t surprised Thorin that when he had made his bid to reclaim Erebor that the Dwarven Lords had once more refused him.

The Dwarven Lords hadn’t been his only problem though, and feeding an entire population was difficult without resources. Like all the other able-bodied dwarves in his care, he had taken work where he could find it. Working himself ragged for a few measly copper pieces. They had also mined their own copper when they had half a chance and had counterfeit the coinage of Men. Often forging the coins of cheaper readily available metal and coating them in copper. It had taken a few tries to get the weight correct. In the end, they had survived another winter, this one living as nomads traveling from city to city.

For nearly three decades, Thorin’s driving thought had been: whatever it takes to survive. There had been no line that Thorin wouldn't cross. He had cheated merchants, lied to customers, had taken short cuts on smithing that lead to inferior products. Which had in turn occasionally gotten him into situations that turned ugly too fast to escape. Slowly the once proud prince had birthed the thought which would follow his race into the next century that Dwarves were greedy, dishonorable thieves.

His knife paused as he remembered, unwilling to risk an injury as his hands started shaking in response to the memories barreling forward without censure.

Thorin had been mobbed, beaten and robbed of what little he’d had on more than one occasion. He had been arrested both for crimes he had and hadn’t committed. It was one such moment that had brought Nori into his life. The blonde dwarf had been sitting in the cell next to him somewhere to the west of the Misty Mountains. Thorin had been curious. There had been no worry or fear in Nori’s countenance, and when the dwarf had struck up a conversation, Thorin had let go of his paranoid suspicion just long enough to gain a friend unlike any he'd had before. It helped that almost immediately after Nori had picked the locks of both cells and commenced in dragging Thorin along in a wild run for freedom.

The door to his room opened. Looking up, Thorin wasn’t surprised to see Nori walking in as if it were his rooms and not the suite of the King Under the Mountain. It infuriated most of his council and amused Thorin. Setting aside his carving, Thorin turned weary eyes to his spymaster. Only to have Nori's _tut_ at him was the same Dori did to Ori. Leaning back in his chair Thorin asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Go to sleep and actually get some rest?” Was the immediate response. Thorin smiled and shook his head. He might not have anything on the schedule, but he still needed to be available if there was an emergency. Fili was good and getting better all the time, but his sister-son still panicked when he encountered diplomacy that was outside of his experiences. Which Nori knew.

“You know that isn’t going to happen,” Thorin replied earning a shrug.

“Had to try. How’s our burglar?” Thorin leaned his head back and considered Nori’s question. How was the burglar? Thorin didn’t know. There was some hope. The emotion that had been displayed while he was braiding his hair was enough to prove that, but the heartfelt conviction that the only reason Bilbo was in Erebor was due to Gandalf’s meddling was a concern.

With a sigh, Thorin answered, “I don’t know. He hasn’t ventured out of the bedroom yet, and I haven’t ventured in. It seems best to let him come to us. There was a lot of trust which had been demolished at our prior parting. Patience seemed like the best course of action.”

He saw Nori nod and pick up one of the failed figurines that littered every flat surface in his room. Thorin scowled and snapped, “Put that down,” With no real heat in it. The amused look he received in return wasn’t much consolation, but Nori did put the figurine back before meandering over to lean against Thorin’s desk.

“Don’t worry about your failed figurines Thorin, I already have six.” Thorin groaned as Nori crossed his arms chuckling. His spy nudged his ankle for Thorin’s attention before continuing, “Bilbo’s a lot like you Thorin, stubborn till he’s blue in the face. He might not ever come to us on this. Shame has a way of twisting facts and anger has a way of making rational beings stupid. Likely as not, our burglar thinks whatever was done to him was deserved.”

Thorin interrupted, angry on behalf of the Hobbit, the emotion surging through him, “That’s ridiculous. He’s no more at fault for what happened in the Shire than I am.”

He watched as Nori raised placating hands before saying, “I know, Thorin. I _know_. You and I both know what it’s like to sit where he’s at. Abused, beaten and tossed aside like we’re no better than the trash. It’s not right, but it happens. You’ve got to be prepared to fight him on this no matter what you think he thinks of you. Trust might have been broken, but leaving Bilbo to stew is only going to allow things to get worse.”

Closing his eyes, Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose before stating, “Point made, I will take your words under advisement and see if I can figure out how to bring our burglar out.”

Opening his eyes, and looking at Nori, Thorin wondered if there wasn’t something more the thief was trying to push for. Like Balin, Nori was of a mind that a consort would do him some good. Thorin disagreed on principle; privately he rather liked the idea of having someone to come home and rant to about idiot council members. The look on Nori’s face though fell somewhere between amused and gleeful. Before Thorin could ask though, Nori changed the topic, “You received a letter from the elves this morning. Rivendell sends its regards and asks for confirmation that Bilbo arrived safely without further irritation to his burns. Which of course got me all curious and since Balin is holding your correspondence until further notice I thought you might want to know that little tidbit.”

Staring at Nori, Thorin’s mind whirled before he jumped up from his chair and stalked towards the bedroom. The sight that met them was one Thorin wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Bilbo had woken up at some point and was in the process of sliding on the clothes that Thorin had left out. They would be big, but they were clean and soft. The Hobbit had been facing away from the door to change. The burns the letter Nori had gotten his hands on mentioning were on full display.

The next moment had the burns covered and a wide-eyed Bilbo stared at them in terror. Moving forward Thorin tried to be as unthreatening as possible. Once within arm’s reach, Thorin asked, “Please let me look?”

Brown eyes locked on his own searching for something. Thorin didn’t know what Bilbo was looking for, but the hobbit seemed to find it. The shirt was once more removed, and the burns presented. With a prayer of thanks to the valor that Bilbo couldn’t see his horrified expression Thorin knelt. There were four branding marks total. Three looked like livestock brands and were deep and even. One had a stylized S with a B in it, another with a P and an F and the last one was a fanciful T. His fingers skimmed over the skin next to that one gently as it was the deepest of the three.

Bilbo’s quiet voice broke the silence saying, “It’s the mark of the Thain. So that anyone who sees the scars will know that the banishment was with his permission.”

Thorin nodded before asking, “And the one on top? Whoever did that one had no idea what they were doing.”

It was true as Thorin looked closer. The bottom line of the brand was deeper than the top, and the lines were less crisp than the other three. This brand hadn’t been pressed in correctly. Deeper on one side than the other and Thorin could see two sets of marks as if the brand had moved once it had touched skin.

“It says dwarf licker.” The response was barely audible, and Thorin snorted.

“Where on earth would they get that idea?” Thorin asked as his fingers poked and prodded the burns as gently as possible. Checking them for debris and seeing what might be done to limit the scarring that was going to happen. He wasn’t expecting an answer to his question. Asking it more out of a need to reassure Bilbo that the markings hadn’t disgusted Thorin.

“I went on an adventure with thirteen dwarves.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, accepting a pale green jar from Nori that contained a cream specifically for burns with a nod. In response, Thorin said, “I fail to see the issue, while there were several of the Company who would have gladly accepted advances should you have chosen to make them you did not, in fact, lick any one of us in any manner to the best of my knowledge. This will sting at first but should subside to a cooling sensation.”

His fingers starting on the worst of the burns Thorin carefully applied the cream. A sigh of relief from under his hands brought a smile to his face before Bilbo told him, “For a hobbit, I was odd to start with. Fifty-one years old and never a single courtship. Then out of the blue Bag End hosts a troop of dwarves. Before anyone could get over _that_ I’d run out my door like a lunatic.”

Thorin kept quiet, slowly and gently working the cream into Bilbo’s burns. Nori, on the other hand, chose that moment to stick his two cents in by asking, “So why dwarf licker then?”

Thorin immediately noticed the tension in the body before him even as the shoulders slumped. Bilbo’s next words were shaky, “It was a well-known secret that my preferences would not be bringing any fauntlings into the world. This was tolerated so long as I kept myself to myself and didn’t do anything unrespectable. Since I wouldn’t tell them anything of my journey, they assumed. Without facts, the voices who had always spoken out against me got their way.”

Clenching his teeth, Thorin snarled, “They had no right to touch you for how the Maker made you. None.” 

He wasn’t expecting his words to have any effect. Except Bilbo always had a way of surprising him. Thorin dodged a finger that was pointed at him as Bilbo spun around face contoured in angry lines before the Hobbit revealed, “I was a hobbit of Hobbiton. The law says that the Thain of the Shire can decree any who poses a threat to the community be stripped of their holdings and banished.” Thorin watched as Bilbo faltered, the arm pointing at him lowering before the Hobbit finished, “That they added injury to insult is nothing but my own fault.”

Without thinking, Thorin reached up and cupped the face in front of him. Eyes filled with tears met his own as he repeated, “They had no right to touch you. You are elf-friend and Durin-kin. You are the Dragon Riddler and Recoverer of the Arkenstone.”

Thorin rubbed his thumbs over too sharp cheeks before realizing what he was doing and pulled his hands away. Moving back Thorin took notice of the gaunt figure and drawn expression and instead of the questions he wanted to ask: what did they do, who were they, Thorin merely stood back up and said, “We’ll let you dress. There will be food once you're done.” 

Once out of the bedroom Thorin dropped into his desk chair; the hard stone punishing him for his lack of care. Nori settled himself on the corner of the desk. Futile though it might always be, Thorin gave the other dwarf a dirty look and a shove saying, “Don’t sit on my desk.” 

He was ignored as Nori remarked, “I don’t think they violated him.”

Skeptical Thorin asked, “Why do you say that?” 

He watched as Nori hesitated before saying, “Not entirely sure. He’s not as skittish to touch as I’d expect from something like that but maybe it’s just you.” Thorin shot his friend a look that had Nori laughing before continuing, “Don’t give me that look, he was just as fascinated with you as you were with him. We all had bets on when you’d both stop being ridiculous and get together.”

“Of course you did.” Thorin sighed even as he asked, “Did anyone win?” 

Nori’s laugh rang out in the space before he said “Not yet.”

Two things happened at once then, Bilbo stepped out of the bedroom, and Fona barged through the exterior door. Everyone had frozen for a minute before Fona announced, “Good Morning your Majesty, Master Nori and honored guest. Now come see to this tray the lot of you. Your Highness, Master Bombur says that he’ll have your braids for garters if you don’t eat something since you hadn’t called for supper last night nor breakfast yet this morning. He was right put out when he learned you’d been neglecting yourself again.” 

A smirk twisted over his face when both Nori and Bilbo cried out his name in the exact same tones of exasperation. He didn’t know why they fussed. He knew his limits. Forgetting everything for work had started as a way to distract himself from an empty stomach when there hadn’t been money to feed everyone. Food stores were no longer a problem and hadn’t been since the first winter in Erebor when they had all the gold in the world to buy supplies but no one to buy from. 

Thorin did like when Bombur got in a tizzy about his eating habits though since his favorite dishes would start being sent up to tempt him. That was always a treat. Movement from Fona drew his attention. She had dipped her head to hide a smug little smile before asking, “Will there be anything else?” 

“No Fona,” Thorin replied; it was the only answer that he could give without laughing with her doing his best not to catch Nori’s disgruntled look out of the corner of his eye. Once the door clicked closed behind her, Thorin felt Nori’s backhand to his shoulder and couldn’t help it anymore. Laughter erupted from him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments! I think I like you all better than any other fandom I've participated in. Please let me know if you think any other tags are needed, I horrid at remembering to document everything. Especially when I'm writing chapter by chapter. 
> 
> Thanks again!  
> -AJ

Life settled into a routine from that moment onward. Mornings now saw him taking a meal with Bilbo and his day regularly ended in supper with the same company. It served two purposes, Thorin knew. The first was that Bilbo got to ensure that Thorin himself was eating regularly. Something that the King was well aware he had issues remembering on his own and didn’t care enough to bother with being more diligent over. And the second was that Thorin got to continue tending to the branding marks. 

All of which were healing as well as could be expected. The one on top would leave almost no trace. Just a few deeper scars along one edge and not nearly enough to get any sense of what the original wound had looked like. The other three though were not healing without deep, deep scars. Those had been made by hands who were well familiar with branding. Likely farmers with herds of some sort. 

Still in the weeks that had come things held a tentatively positive outlook. Thorin still didn’t know the full story and any time Bilbo was asked the hobbit immediately clammed up and wouldn’t say anything more. Sometimes for days. It would have been unsettling if Thorin hadn’t known from his own experiences, and those few conversations he’d had with Nori confirmed that Thorin reacted like any dwarf would, that speaking of the events would be just as traumatic as the experience. Knowing this didn’t stop his worry, but it gave him the patience to wait. 

That particular morning, Thorin’s schedule had been twisted around due to some unforeseen complication weeks before. So, he had been forced to sit through a Council session with the Iron Hills Lords, which required the wearing of the Raven Crown. Followed by a Morning Audience, also requiring the crown. Finishing with one of the frank conversations between Dale and Mirkwood, which would mean that Thranduil would inevitably bring something gold into Erebor just to tempt Thorin’s gold-sickness. 

If the alliances weren’t so necessary, Thorin would have killed the elf just to be rid of the irritation. 

Being surrounded by gold for so long did horrible things to Thorin’s stomach. So, it was with a queasy stomach that he waved off lunch and headed directly to the meeting chamber. Thankfully there it was warm, something the throne room often wasn’t especially in the winter, and blessedly silent. Dropping into his chair, Thorin leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Repeating silent thanks to Mahal that his craft was with steel and silver instead of gold. It would have been a travesty to regain Erebor and finally have time and inclination to work on his own projects only to find that he could do so no longer because the smell of gold made him physically ill. 

Thorin didn’t know how long he sat there, letting his mind drift from one thought to the next without any active guidance before the door opened and soft footsteps sounded on the stone. These were too heavy to be an elf, which left only Bard. Raising his head, Thorin looked at the Man and was moderately concerned by the dark circles and clearly exhausted state the other presented. With a raised eyebrow, Thorin asked, “What happened?” 

Bard just snorted at him before replying, “A baker’s apprentice set the guest stable on fire last night. No one is exactly sure how, and it took several hours and practically the entire city to ensure that it didn’t spread any farther. One empty stable was an acceptable loss, anything more not as much.” 

“Do you need any assistance with rebuilding or healing?” Thorin asked with a wince, concerned considering he knew fires in the towns of Men were never pretty and almost always resulted in someone getting hurt. A fact of life when one made their dwellings out of wood. 

Bard’s negative shake of the head before the man said, “No, no one was hurt beyond a few minor burns once the blaze was put out and the stable master hasn’t decided if we want to build the structure again or expand the one that houses the royal stock. Which I frankly had no idea even existed before two hours ago.” 

Thorin chuckled. Those conversations were always perplexing and amusing. Being told that there was something set aside specifically for his family simply because he was King Under the Mountain never got any easier. Most of the time it happened without any impute from the royal household at all. Thorin knew because he had overheard a conversation between Dwalin and Fili about weapons. Fili had fallen in love with a particular set of knives and when the Prince had inquired if he could obtain them had been informed that they were royal weaponry and were Fili’s to do with as he saw fit. 

The conversation in Thorin had engaged in later that evening with both his sister-sons regarding not letting such treatment go to their heads had been enlightening. Apparently, both boys were more confused than anything else as to why people would be striving to set aside _anything_ for their family instead of putting their time towards the rebuilding of Erebor and the success of their people to have even considered taking advantage of the situation. Thorin knew that they were both young enough that the idea would occur to them sooner or later. He had engaged in lengthy discussions with Balin and Dis regarding how to handle the event once it happened so not to offend any of his subjects while still appropriately reprimanding his heirs. 

It had been decided that they would have to come up with and execute a service to the community. Thorin didn’t want princes of the sort he had been whose arrogance and pride would get people killed due to starvation and cold. Thorin wanted them to be better than he ever was, even if that meant enforcing a high road when it came to unexpected luxuries. 

Thranduil walked in a moment later and without so much as a hint of greeting, flowed into his chair and demanded, “What are you doing to ensure the Hobbit is comfortable within your halls?”

The only thing Thorin could do for a long moment was basking in relief when it dawned on him that Thranduil had not brought any gold with him this time. Just his flouncy self. Staring, Thorin couldn’t form a sentence for a long moment. Shaking his head, he asked, “What do you mean by that Thranduil?”

The elf rolled his eyes in disdain but didn’t comment before explaining, “Bilbo Baggins is a child of the earth. He needs green and growing things to survive. Those halfwit idiots might have thrown him out and revoked his – hmm citizenship for lack of a better word but that does _not_ change his nature. So, what are you doing?”

Thorin blinked a few times before muttering a curse in Khazdul concerning where Thranduil could shove his bothersome question. Rubbing the side of his nose in frustration, Thorin asked, “What would you suggest we do?” 

To his surprise, it was Bard who answered instead of Thranduil. Likely because the elf was about to say something that would rile all of their tempers. Bard was at his most diplomatic when Thranduil was most annoying. 

“Build him a garden, or grant him access to one and permission to work in it however he pleases.”

Thorin opened his mouth to say something scathing and promptly closed it again. It was a good solution. Especially if Thranduil was right about the Hobbit needing a green space to thrive. Half-formed thoughts of how to enclose such an area for work during the winter months when the snows kept everyone sane within four walls flickered and died like fire before Thorin shook his head and said, “A good suggestion that I’ll have to check on. Shall we move to business?” 

Turning his mind to crops, mine outputs and the dangers of Mirkwood Forest was difficult. Thorin hadn’t had a project this intriguing or challenging since he was in his twenties and finishing his mastery in silver. Thoughts of an enclosed garden plagued him through the rest of the meeting. 

Hours later, Thorin sat at his desk and frowned down at the map of Erebor he had spread there. He knew for a fact that his grandmother had gardens and couldn’t for the life of him remember where the hell they had been placed. He had already asked Balin, who had been an apprentice historian at the time and had no idea what Thorin was talking about. He supposed Nori would know by now as the former thief had made it his duty to know every crack and cranny of the mountain still accessible. Except, Thorin had Nori and his minions currently scouring the mountain for any rumors of ill-will towards the crown and Bilbo. 

In the end, Thorin asked for Dwalin. The other dwarf had become his best friend almost by default. Fundin had bestowed his youngest son into service to the Royal line. It had turned out to suit everyone when it was discovered that Dwalin had been made to be a warrior. Liking fighting and warfare far more than gems, jewels, and metals. In the very beginning, Dwalin had just been a dwarfling like any other who had gotten into mischief and escaped lessons. Usually bringing the heir-apparent along with him. Thorin was almost positive that he remembered ditching lessons with Fundin to play hide and seek in the gardens. 

The door opened admitting the balding dwarf, Thorin could tell by the sound of the footsteps. No one else in his acquaintance walked like they were punishing the ground. Looking up over the desk Thorin wondered just what Dwalin had been getting up to while he was sequestered in meeting after meeting that didn’t require the presence of a guard. Before he could ask though Dwalin remarked, “You keep standing like that, and you’ll be as bent as old Lofar was before the dragon.” 

Thorin chuckled. Lofar had been the Guild master before Smaug came. A stooped old dwarf with hair as white and wispy as spun sugar who had seen nearly four hundred years. Half of which had been spent ensuring that Thror’s madness didn’t impact his people. 

“Should I only be so lucky.” It was the only response Thorin thought appropriate considering how they had found the old man. He had been one more of many corpses found in various locations the dragon hadn’t been able to fit. The old dwarf had been apparently guarding a room full of dwarflings who had likely been at lessons when the attack happened. Thorin didn’t think there had been a single member of the company who had been dry-eyed after that discovery. 

Returning his mind to the problem at hand, Thorin asked, “Do you happen to remember where my grandmother’s gardens were located? It’s been brought to my attention that Hobbits are not Dwarrow and thus need things like sunlight, good soil and growing things to survive.” 

There was a grunt before Dwalin’s head leaned over the desk from the other side. Thorin started to shove the map around so Dwalin could look at it correctly, but the other just made a gesture of dismissal before saying, “Guard briefings are all done with the maps facing the younglings. It’s more familiar to me upside down than right side up.”

Thorin chuckled and sat down in his chair. A few moments later, Dwalin pointed at the map and asked, “Why not ask for Nori? He’s your spy after all.” 

Thorin sighed and said, “He was my second choice after Balin, but I’ve got him weeding out several potential problems that aren’t big enough to involve the guard but aren’t so trivial as to ignore. He’s of better use where he’s at, where ever _that_ is. You and I also used to hide away in those gardens if my memories can be trusted, so I asked you instead of Nori leaving him as a last resort.”

Dwalin snorted and said, “There were four entrances to the gardens. Only one of which may be accessible currently. From cave-ins when the dragon came rampaging through knocking down support pillars. The one that’s open isn’t likely to have good support in the stairs to it, so I’d actually suggest the servants entrance. It’ll take a might bit of work to clear but should have an overall stability that’ll suffice for anything that you’ll want to haul up that way. There’s also a smoking ledge further up the mountain near some of the celestial lenses that could be covered to make a hot house if you’re thinking is so inclined.” 

Thorin stared at his friend for a long moment before asking suspiciously, “Just how much time have you been spending with Nori lately?” 

The grin and blush that Dwalin sported for a moment had Thorin sitting straight in his chair in shock wondering if he had missed his two friends falling in love. Before he could comment though Dwalin remarked, “I’ve been taking lessons from him in spycraft. It came to my attention that in order to keep you and the boys safe I’ve got to be sneakier about it. Especially when we start getting dignitaries and ambassadors and representatives. There will be times when guards have to be present and can’t be seen, and there will be times when it’s downright inappropriate for a guard to be by your side but one’ll have to be there anyways. So, I’ve been working with the Thief to learn how to think outside the rules of a fair battle. We’ve got a few plans started that’ll make sure no matter what situation you’ll be in, there will be someone with the training and equipment ready and waiting to keep your head firmly attached to your shoulders.” 

That had not been what Thorin was expecting at all. Though it was a thrill to know his friends were doing so much to ensure his family’s protection. Smiling, Thorin said “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years.”

That got him another snort before Dwalin remarked, “Died a stupid death and left Dis to clean up your mess. Now, come look here. This is where the entrances are,” Thorin watched as Dwalin pointed out four points on the map, “And this is the servant's entrance which’ll be safe enough for our Hobbit but this here is the entrance you’ll want to use for anything heavier or larger than a single dwarf is wide. It’s blocked right now but should clear out easy enough. If you’d like I’ll get Bofur started?” 

Thorin nodded and asked, “Are the servant's stairs firm enough for a dwarf to go up to them? I’d like to take a look at them before unleashing Bilbo.” 

Dwalin frowned for a moment before shrugging and saying, “That you’ll have to ask the Thief about. I’ve not been down that way and only know about it because Nori was positive that Bilbo would come back to us eventually. Not sure how he knew all this was going to happen though.”

“That’s because I didn’t know it would happen. I figured he’d get back and they’d shun him for going on an adventure and he’d come back to be around people who loved him just as he was.” 

Thorin looked up as Nori spoke walking out from behind a tapestry. Blinking Thorin asked, “Are you part cat?” 

Dwalin laughed and said, “Well that certainly clears up a few of my questions.” 

Nori’s scowl in response had promised death and mayhem before it was removed by a fond smile. Thorin watched Nori shake his head before asking, “So what were you looking for me about? All I got was that you were bandying my name around like it was your new favorite toy.” 

Thorin gave the thief a dirty look and said, “Nothing so vulgar. It’s been brought to my attention that you know this mountain better than anyone else alive. I’m looking to open my grandmother’s gardens up and turn Bilbo loose on them.” 

He watched Nori nod before the former thief sidled up to his desk and said, “Well if your fingers are indicating where you’re trying to enter I agree.” 

Thorin nodded and asked his question again, “Will the servant's stair hold more than a hobbits weight? I’m interested in looking at the gardens.” 

Thorin watched as Nori shared a speaking look with Dwalin before saying, “Probably? It held me without much issue, but I wouldn’t count on the stairs holding up to repeated use by anyone. Including the Hobbit.” 

Thorin nodded again and said, “Then let’s go. Winter is fast approaching, and I know nothing about gardens. The sooner I give it over to Bilbo the sooner he’ll be able to tell me what needs to be done.”

The sighs that both Dwalin and Nori released were completely uncalled for, in Thorin’s opinion. 

Early the next day, Thorin was standing once more on the royal balcony overlooking the entirety of Erebor watching the light of dawn trickle down into the mountain one lens at a time. The inspection of the gardens had gone well, Thorin had been pleased that there were still flowers in the beds and while everything was terribly overgrown even to his untrained eyes, it seemed like there would be plenty of plants to start with. Perhaps even the half wild things would suit Bilbo being so completely, unlike those tame things that had been prolific in the Shire. 

Thorin was also hopeful that the garden might turn into a place where Bilbo felt safe, perhaps even one day safe enough to talk about what had been done to him. He wouldn’t hold his breath, but it was hope. 

And lost in thought, Thorin missed what little noise the hobbit might have made coming up to his side until an elbow brushed against his own where it leaned against the balustrade. Thorin didn’t say anything for a long minute while the sun slowly illuminated the upper portions of the mountain. Only when the light had reached the brightest, did Thorin turn to Bilbo and say, “Good morning Master Hobbit. What brought you out of your bed so early?” 

From the way Bilbo hesitated, Thorin knew that Bilbo was contemplating both telling the truth and dismissing that anything was wrong at all. Thorin didn’t know what to say to make things easier, to make trusting any of them easier. As it was when Thorin noticed that Bilbo couldn’t find the words to respond he did it himself by changing the topic of conversation. 

“Well, nevermind. It’s good you are up and about. I’ve got a present for you, and it’s one I think you’ll enjoy. Would you follow me?” 

Always asking, never demanding. It was the one promise he had made to himself regarding Bilbo that Thorin was adamant about keeping no matter what. He would never force a decision on Bilbo Baggins ever again. Even if that meant letting the hobbit walk out of the door of Erebor once more, and likely for good. 

The little nod he got from the Hobbit was heartening, and so he led the way to the gardens. Once outside, even in the shadow of the mountain for this slope didn’t face either east or west, Thorin thought Bilbo looked less tense. Not relaxed by any stretch of the imagination, but less like he was being hunted. Settling down on a bench near the door, Thorin made a shooing motion with his hands to send the hobbit off exploring. The inspection the day before had revealed there was nothing remotely dangerous but a few stinging nettles and what might have been a hawk’s nest. 

Thorin pulled out his pipe and settled down to smoke. Trying to keep an eye on Bilbo while not looking like he was keeping an eye on Bilbo. Not being suited to the subtleties of spying, Thorin wasn’t particularly practiced in the skill. He could almost hear Nori’s delighted snickering at his attempts. So, when Bilbo walked back over to him with a bewildered expression, Thorin wasn’t startled. Even though the hobbit made no more noise than the wind. 

“Are you giving me a garden?”

The tone of the questions was just as bewildered as Bilbo’s expression. Frowning, Thorin asked, “Should I not?” 

The hesitation was back before Bilbo exclaimed, “I’m not a hobbit anymore.”

Thorin felt his frown deepen. Tone carefully moderated to show only confusion and concern, Thorin said, “I don’t understand.” 

He watched as Bilbo looked away, over at a rose bush that was a riot of blooms and growth in every which way it had wanted to go, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Thorin knew that gesture. Oin called it self-soothing. Before Thorin could do or say anything else though Bilbo sighed and said, “You’ve seen the brands, I suppose you ought to know.” 

And with that ominous statement, Bilbo sat down on the bench next to him and began. “I guess it all started when Lobelia Bracegirdle decided that she wanted a better life than that of a pig farmer’s daughter. Initially, she’d set her sights on me, and I’d shot her down flat before the rumors had even started. I’m not sure what she expected, I’d turned down every suitor at that point. But she wanted the Baggins name, and more importantly, she wanted the Baggins smial and fortune. She was bound and determined to get it however she had too. Except for the only Baggins that would accept her suit was Otho who wasn’t a Baggins at all but a Sackville. Who is in line to inherit the Sackville seat and therefore was ineligible for anything from the Baggins.

“All of that didn’t come out into the open until she’d already had me declared dead, set up an auction of all the possessions in Bag End, and had petitioned the Thain -- who was my Uncle by way of my Mother -- for possession of Bag End. There I come smelling of troll, back from thirteen months of an adventure, decked out in elvish and dwarvish gear with a sword on my hip like it belonged there ruining all of her carefully laid plans.”

Thorin wasn’t entirely sure where this was going. He and the rest of the company had heard all about Lobelia and her spoon stealing ways. Instead of asking for clarification though, Thorin just let Bilbo ramble.

“It took a few months before she’d gotten enough rumors going about my mental state, or lack thereof before Lobelia tried her next ploy. I don’t know why I did it, but the moment I got back to the Shire I updated my will. Which was the smartest thing I’ve done in the last two years? Even so, I wasn’t surprised when I started finding horseshoe nails in my garden. Hobbit’s call it iron sowing, and it’s a declaration of a feud in the Shire. We take those quite seriously you know.”

Thorin watched as Bilbo swallowed, the hobbits gazed locked firmly on the smooth stone of the walkway. Feeling helpless wasn’t something he did well, and for all his training in diplomacy, the King Under the Mountain had no idea what to say. Except that he was glad iron sowing had a completely different meaning for hobbits than it did for dwarves. That was one worry taken off his shoulders. 

“The Bounders came not long after that and issued the formal banishment. I was all set to leave without a fuss when a group of hobbits caught me unaware. I can only assume that I hadn't left soon enough for them or perhaps Lobelia had learned that even getting me banished wouldn’t get her Bag End. I don’t know. All I know is that I was on my way back from informing the Baggins holdings that the liege duties had been turned over to Drogo when they set upon me. I didn’t even fight knowing that fighting would only make things worse. There were eight of them to my lonely one.

“They beat me senseless, stripped me to skin and branded me. First with the mark of the Thain, who by signing the banishment permitted his mark to be left, then by the Sackville-Baggins who were the instigators and likely part of my mob, finally by the Proudfoots. I have no idea what they would have gotten out of the deal, perhaps one of their daughters married to Lobelia’s son once he’s of age. I don’t know.” 

Thorin reached out and laid a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. He wanted to do more. To pull the Hobbit to him, wrap arms around the still thin frame and protect this being from all the future hurts the world might throw the hobbits way. It wasn’t possible, Thorin knew that. Not in the least because Bilbo had been through something traumatic, less so than Thorin had originally supposed, but that didn’t make it any less traumatic. 

Instead, he repeated the words he’d first said when the burns had come to light, “They had no right to touch you. None. And as long as I have anything to say about it, no one will dare try anything considerable from here on out.” Thorin paused for a moment before finishing quietly, “Permitted, of course, that you wish to remain in Erebor. My protection is yours to command, but it only stretches so far.” 

The curly once more gold curls bounced as Bilbo nodded in response before those gray-green eyes met his own and Bilbo said, “You said I was welcome until the line of Durin no longer rules in Erebor, so I’d decided to stay.”

Grinning in relief, Thorin returned, “So I did, and so you are.” 

And it felt like the start of something new.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're getting there... Says the author who originally decided this was going to be a three chapter short story. Oh well. 
> 
> -AJ

There was nothing half about the gardens Thorin had gifted him with; they were an untamed force of stubbornness. Bilbo relished it. The roses, in particular, were vicious in their rebellion and for the first time in his entire life, Bilbo had found himself wearing gloves to work in a garden. 

He had spent almost two weeks just sitting in the garden and basking in the presence of growing things. After what had happened in the Shire, Bilbo had been sure that such a pleasure was no longer to be found. He had done his best not to think about it, to forget.

He had told Thorin the events that had conspired to bring Bilbo back to his doorstep but had left out most of the consequences. Even still after being banished Bilbo would keep the secrets of the Shire. It wouldn’t do for Dwarves to know there was magic protecting the Shire, keeping it green and fertile. Keeping the hobbits who resided there content. Oh, there were a few born every generation that felt the pull of the outside world and Lobelia hadn’t been the first petty shrew to cause dissent and unhappiness nor would she be the last. Bilbo knew all of that, it hadn’t stopped the deep, painful wounds the actions had inflicted. 

Banishment of a hobbit was both a legal contract and a ritual of magic. The first was merely a document stating that by the law the Hobbit being presented with the document had been deemed a threat to Shire life and was being asked to remove him or herself from the lands occupied thereof. Bilbo had accepted his banishment with as much grace as one could have when being told to give up everything and anything ever known. Bilbo’s Uncle, Isumbras the fourth, had looked pained when the ritual breaking Bilbo’s tie to the Shire lands had been performed. There was nothing that could be done though, this was the path which Old Pott, Mayor of Michel Delving and officially elected leader of the Shire, had decided was best. The orders would be followed out. Even against the Thain’s favorite nephew.

The ritual had been agonizing. The feelings of something primal and attached to everything that had made Bilbo who he was, was not just ripped out but ripped to shreds had left its own unique scar. One that even a wild garden on the side of a mountain wouldn’t readily cure. In time, Bilbo surmised the ache would diminish and fade away to a terrible memory. In those first moments though, everything hurt. Kindness was especially cruel.

Nothing was the same anymore, and nothing would ever be the same. Bilbo knew that probably better than anyone else in Erebor. Which was only his own fault for not having the courage to talk to anyone but Thorin, who was King. Who was Bilbo to impose his woes on a King who had much better things to do than sitting around and listening to one former Hobbit moan about feeling adrift and lost in the world that didn’t have a place for him. So Bilbo bit his tongue and held his silence. Found things to occupy his time with and did his best to keep out from under foot. It wasn’t as difficult as Bilbo had first worried. All of the Company had things they were responsible for which left Bilbo the ability to do as he pleased. 

The first few weeks in Erebor, Bilbo hadn’t moved from his bed for more than the required meals. Showing up to make sure Thorin turned up had goaded him up and out of bed. That lassitude hadn’t lasted though as Bilbo’s own sense of worth and responsibility reared its head and demanded that he do something, anything. 

That something had become exploring. Bilbo was pretty sure he’d discovered rooms no one other than Nori had stepped foot in and was equally sure that the thief turned spy hadn’t delved any further through the rooms than to see that they were stable and there wasn’t anything dangerous lurking in them. So far, Bilbo’s favorite place had been a small library stuffed with children’s books. Some, which were primers designed to teach young dwarves Khuzdul. Several of those books had made their way into his rooms without much of a second thought. They had taken up residence on his desk, and if Thorin had an issue with Bilbo teaching himself, the King hadn’t said anything. 

Bilbo’s hands paused in the middle of turning a patch of soil that had been home to dandelions not a few minutes prior as his mind considered that Thorin didn’t know Bilbo was teaching himself Khuzdul. Bilbo, perhaps better than anyone else, knew that Thorin wasn’t the most observant of dwarves at the best of times. The Company as a whole had taken bets, and then made them again when the first set of dates came and passed, on when Thorin and Bilbo would get their act together and just kiss. It wouldn’t surprise Bilbo if the bet were still on, even though Bilbo thought he’d been clear enough the other night when the topic came up about his lack of interest. 

It wasn’t truly a lack of interest if Bilbo was honest. There was interest, but it was no longer desire, lust. Now it was a craving for something softer. All Bilbo wanted was someone to share quiet moments with, someone who knew he had been stripped of everything that made him Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Hobbit of the Shire and still thought there was enough left worth knowing. It was asking too much, Bilbo knew that, but that didn’t stop him wishing every time he knocked a dandelion seed free. 

The scuff of a boot on stone had Bilbo whirling around, spade clutched in his hand like it was Sting. Heartbeat racing as fear surged through his limbs until Bilbo caught sight of Nori leaning casually against a wall watching with eyes that missed nothing. Bilbo released the breath he had held and relaxed. This wasn’t the first time that Nori had surprised Bilbo, or sought him out for reasons only known to the former thief. Not that Bilbo was complaining, having someone other than the plants to talk to was a welcome change of pace.

Bilbo turned back to the soil he had been working on while asking, “What brings you by today, Master Dwarf?” 

There was a snort, much closer than the scuff had been, before Nori commented, “I don’t know what you are doing to this place, but it looks even more out of control than it did the first time I came out here.” 

Bilbo hid a smile. That had been part of his plan. Beorn’s gardens had left a distinct impression on Bilbo when the Company had rested with the shapeshifter. There had been the feeling of wilderness gently restrained and tamed only through respect and love which had lurked just below the surface of the gardens. Bilbo had loved them and when Thorin had insisted that Bilbo do _something_ with the gardens that had been his first thought. A wild garden of his own where his plants would flourish because of nature rather than the subversive magics of the Shire. It had taken some time to remember how to listen to the plants. Bilbo had done it instinctively before the banishment and feared that it was a skill he wouldn’t be able to learn. Bilbo had been afraid that it had been the green magic of the Shire and not something that was part of being a Hobbit. 

It had been such a shock and delight when the first whispers had brushed across his senses. From there it had taken a week to understand that he couldn’t chase the voices of the plants. They would no longer speak to him just because he demanded it. Mastery over green things had been part of the Shire magics apparently, but Bilbo had nothing better to do than re-learn the ancient art of growing. So, through trial and error, Bilbo learned how to listen, how to feel, and how to improve on the natural bounty already present in the King’s gardens. 

Glancing at Nori out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo asked, “Is that a bad thing? Should I be taming the gardens into an elegant lady’s pleasure garden?”

Bilbo wasn’t surprised when Nori frowned at his questions. Nori, Bilbo knew, had more knowledge of plants and how to grow them than most of the Company. Oin included. But Nori’s experience all revolved around his craft as a thief, and so the dwarf only knew which plants to use to mask his scent, which plants would put a Man or dwarf to sleep and which ones would kill. Bilbo had often wondered if Nori knew there were herbs that, when brewed into a tea, would make the drinker babble with brutal honesty about anything that came to mind. That wasn’t a question Bilbo was going to ask, mostly because Bilbo was familiar with the brew and had no desire to feel its effects ever again. 

Turning to look at Nori fully Bilbo waited. It didn’t take long for Nori to shrug before saying, “Honestly, I have no idea what Thorin wanted when he gave you the gardens. You’d have to ask him. I rather like the effect, but you know me. I’m always a fan of bucking tradition and breaking the rules.” 

Bilbo laughed. He was doing that more often these days and sometimes it didn’t even feel like he was faking it anymore. Shaking his head Bilbo turned back to his dirt before asking a second-time tone much more relaxed, “What brings you by today Nori?” 

There was a moment of silence while Bilbo dug his hands deep into the soil searching with his mind for any spots that needed fertilizer before Nori responded, “We sent a dwarf to the Shire you know. To find out what happened.” Bilbo nodded, they had told him they’d done that once he had started venturing out of his room for more than meals. “She’s just returned and permitting she didn’t miss anyone the dwarves of Erebor can now promise that those who hurt you will never get any closer to you than our front gates. Thorin will likely have this conversation with you in person later as well. I wanted to give you a heads up and ask how you’d like us to deal with them if they ever decide to show their noses outside of the Shire?”

Bilbo sat back up and turned to face Nori. The dwarf was as serious as Bilbo had ever seen him. There wasn’t even the usual twinkle of mischief lurking deep within the dwarf’s eyes. It hit Bilbo then that it wasn’t just Thorin who was willing to go to any length to ensure his protection. Bilbo had never considered that the entire Company would take on the responsibility for his safety and well-being. 

Bilbo trusted them all, there was just something that drew him inexplicably to Thorin Oakenshield. That said this dwarf, beyond any other, would face any challenge to protect Bilbo. It wasn’t like Bilbo didn’t have ample proof of that resolution. It wasn’t every day that a dwarf driven mad by gold, faced with the betrayal of a most trusted friend, threatened to throw someone off a battlement and _didn’t_. Dwarves weren’t exactly known for asking questions first and maiming later. It had taken Bilbo most of the journey back to the Shire to puzzle out that no matter what had been said that day, Thorin hadn’t wanted to cause harm. Bilbo had felt it in the restrained strength that had held him up as gently as possible, had seen it in eyes so blue and filled with the pain caused directly by Bilbo’s theft, had heard it in the hitched breath Thorin had taken during the endless moment before Gandalf’s shout had sounded. 

Bilbo had known he faced death the moment he had decided not to turn over the Arkenstone. He had accepted that outcome and had done what he thought had been best when faced with almost an entire company subverted past reason by gold. Even Ori and Balin had suffered their own versions of gold sickness. Bilbo had repeated found both scholars entrenched in the library reverently petting ancient books. The only one Bilbo hadn’t seen swayed by the gold had been the dwarf currently watching him for a reaction to the news just given. 

With a deep breath, Bilbo considered Nori’s question. What did he want to be done with his attackers? Bilbo was sharp enough to know that whatever his answer, whether or not they made it out of the Shire or not, it would be brought to pass. The dwarves would see to it that his wishes were carried out. 

Closing his eyes, Bilbo felt his hands ball into fists. It was easy to be angry with the Hobbits. They had taken everything from him. They had gotten him stripped of his holdings, had ensured that everything left to him by his parents had been forfeit alongside Bag End, and through it, all had taken every last bit of dignity Bilbo might have held onto away. By Shire law, Bilbo wasn’t even allowed to claim the name Baggins. Everything that made him who he was had been stripped away to leave what? Bilbo wasn’t sure, even though he was slowly figuring it out. 

His first reaction was to request that his indignity be paid back in full with interest. That they be found face down on a muddy road, naked as the day they were born after being beaten senseless and left in the rain. Bilbo was well aware that Hamfast had broken all sorts of laws and customs when the gardener had taken him up on his cart and back to the Gamgee smial. The kindness of one Hobbit didn’t absolve his anger at the rest.

Revenge wouldn’t be very hobbit-like, and perhaps, Bilbo mused, it would be appropriate. Since Bilbo himself was no longer allowed to be a Hobbit. Weariness swamped over his anger a moment later. Sitting back on his heels Bilbo looked around the garden. The whispers of the plants silent in his mind and not because Bilbo wasn’t listening right. They had lived for generations steeped in dwarven and dragon magics. The plants almost had minds of their own. Silence now could only mean that they were waiting to judge him and his worthiness as their tender based off of his responses. 

The gentle brush of a petal on his elbow drew his gaze. A black-eyed Susan swayed forward again to touch his elbow. Tears sprung up in his eyes. Bilbo wanted them to hurt like he hurt. Wanted them to feel the seemingly never ending agony of having a part of himself ripped to shreds due to a petty shrew whose greed swayed good sense. Wanted them to feel the same sense of loss and hopelessness that had plagued his every step since that day in the rain. And knew, beyond any doubt that what he wanted wouldn’t make him feel better. It wouldn’t answer the question of who was he now. It wouldn’t stop the pain. Only time would heal his hurts, and any retaliation would only perpetuate a cycle of abuse that Bilbo wanted no part of. 

Looking over at Nori, Bilbo explained softly, “I want them to intimately know the consequences of their actions. I want them to know my shame. But what I want isn’t right, and it isn’t fair. So I don’t want to _do_ anything to them. If they come here, I would hope they would be judged for their actions and punished under Erebor laws and customs because this is now my home and I was promised the protections that offered. Don’t get me wrong, I’m angry, and I’ll probably be angry for a long time, but I didn’t earn the use name Dragon Riddler by letting my emotions get the best of me. So I’ll be angry and have faith that if they ever venture here, Thorin will try them for their crimes against my person. That’s the right thing to do.” 

Bilbo wasn’t surprised to see Nori frown, but the dwarf only shook his head and said, “You’ve the right to request their beard to decorate your walls you know? Under our laws, they dishonored themselves and their families by not engaging in a fair fight. I know hobbits don’t have beards but perhaps the hair off their feet?” 

Bilbo shrugged looking away. Shaving off some hair wouldn’t fill the empty spot in his soul, wouldn’t give him back his mother’s things, and wouldn’t ease the ache of loss. Bilbo heard Nori sigh before the dwarf said, “I’ll let Thorin know your wishes.” 

Bilbo nodded and said nothing as he tracked Nori’s boots on the stone. Only when he was sure the dwarf had left him alone did Bilbo get up and move to a different part of the gardens where he wouldn’t be immediately spotted should anyone come looking for him. If his tears of pain and rage watered the dirt, well only the plants and the birds were there to bear witness, and they would never betray his trust. 

~*~

Thorin sat in the small council room and looked at the four dwarves seated across from him. They were unremarkable by dwarven standards. Each one with a face shaped face that Thorin wouldn’t have been able to describe with any identifying detail to mark them out of a crowd. Brown haired, brown eyed, and browned skin they could have been identical copies of each other for all Thorin could see the differences between them. Shaking his head, Thorin asked, “What news do you have to report?” 

The first one to his right cleared their throat, and by the sound, Thorin identified them as a dwarrowdam. He watched her eyes crinkle a bit at the corners before saying, “Rumors of a plot against you or the burglar seem to be just that your majesty. Mostly what your people want to know is if this strange childlike creature has been sent to be your Consort in an effort to foster better relationships between Erebor and the Shire. Except I’ve not found a single dwarf that knows Bilbo comes from the Shire and is an adult in his own right. The loudest speakers just think he’s an elfling. I await your direction on correcting the assumption.”

Thorin nodded and waited for the next report. He’d get through all of them before someone interrupted this time or there would be a price to pay. With his mood as it was, the price would likely be in blood. Thorin had been spoiling for a decent fight since Bilbo had confided in him. 

“As far as we can tell, the Elves of Mirkwood have successfully cleared the forest of immediate hazards. They seem to be at a loss about the river, but travelers can move from one side to the other without worrying they’ll be eaten by giant spiders.” Thorin nodded again. A rare piece of good news from the Elven realm and Thranduil hadn’t brought gold into Erebor at their last meeting just to get on Thorin’s nerves. Apparently, wonders never ceased in regards to his most annoying neighbor. Chastising himself, Thorin reigned in his thoughts. Thranduil was irritating but had also been supportive and generous in their dealings. Thorin rubbed his temple and decided that he’d likely be annoying as well if he reached six thousand years old. 

Turning his gaze on the third dwarf, Thorin waited. One of these two dwarves would have been the one sent to the Shire and would have whatever details that Bilbo might have happened to leave out of his retelling. The other had reports from the Dale councils which while important were not what Thorin wanted to hear about. 

“Dale is currently holding steady in their opinion of all neighbors, mostly due to a series of attacks by one of their own forcing everyone to look inward instead of out. Master Nori has directed several of us to sneak in and root out the problem. We’re to verify with you on retribution.”

Thorin nodded at that and responded, “So long as the attacker is a Man going after Men do not interfere and turn over everything you find to Bard. It’s his kingdom, and he’ll not appreciate any meddling. If it’s a dwarf or one of the victims becomes a dwarf bring it to my attention, and I’ll work with Bard to deal with it then. First, we’ll need a name and a face so start there.” The dwarf nodded in response and made a note on the strangest piece of paper Thorin had ever seen. Turning his attention back to the last dwarf, Thorin resisted his curiosity. Nori and his people always had the most interesting things. 

The last dwarf glanced at the other three and without a by your leave from Thorin stood as one and left the room. Thorin felt an eyebrow raise before the dwarf in front of him started talking. “By your request, Master Nori sent me to the Shire to uncover what had happened to Bilbo Dragon Riddler. It began with a tradition the Hobbits call Iron Sowing. Which is an act of throwing horseshoe nails about in a garden. According to Shire rumor, the Sackville-Baggins requested this be done in their name to Master Bilbo. Which breaks the tradition since it’s supposed to be a declaration of feuding between families. One Lotho Sackville-Baggins was loudly put out about it. 

“This is where is gets strange by Hobbit tradition. It seems that the horseshoe nails were not sown in return but left in a sack at the door to the Sackville-Baggins residence. Further breaking the tradition. From there the story says a Lobelia started spreading rumors that Master Bilbo was practicing unspeakable acts of depravity. I couldn’t find anyone who knew what those acts were supposed to have been though, just a few tidbits from number two Bagshot row saying how Master Bilbo would wave a sword around from time to time in his garden when he thought no one was around to watch. 

“There was a petition made to the Thain of the Shire, who Master Bilbo is related to by way of his mother, that was denied to have Master Bilbo declared dangerous. Governance in the Shire seems to be more complicated than any dwarf settlement. Somehow the initial denial was retracted and the petition approved. There was a letter in the Thain’s office from an Old Pott ordering the request be granted. There was no reason given in the letter, so I supposed that it was just a quirk of Hobbits. 

“From there the stories get mixed up. Some are saying Master Bilbo refused the banishment, most are saying he accepted it and still more think that the acceptance was lip service and Master Bilbo hadn’t had any intention of leaving the Shire. Personally, I believe that this is the result of petty rumors being spread. As I was able to uncover that the Baggins holdings were promptly turned over to one Drogo Baggins. The tenants of said holdings reported that Master Bilbo himself had come around to inform them of the change in Lordship. And Master Baggins himself told me that Master Bilbo had been planning on setting out at first light the morning after the attack. 

“According to rumor Bodo Proudfoot, Sancho Proudfoot, Hugo Bracegirdle, Dugo Bracegirdle, Otho Sackville-Baggins, Falco Chubb-Baggins, Rudigar Bolger, and Fastolph Bolger were all unaccounted for by their wives for the evening that Master Bilbo was attacked. Their story says they were all at the Green Dragon, but I was unable to find a single person, including the barkeep to confirm that so I’d pin the attack on them. I took drawings of their faces, and those have been turned over to Master Nori so copies can be made and distributed.” 

Thorin settled back in his chair. The only new information he’d gotten were the names and faces. Thorin trusted Bilbo. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least to have learned that his burglar had left out some detail when Bilbo had told the story. Thorin had done so himself when confronted with Dis’s gruff worry and concern. He wasn’t sure what it said that Bilbo hadn’t tried to hide any of the experience except the names of those who had harmed him and perhaps a bit of the politics regarding the situation. Running a hand through his hair, Thorin said, “Thank you, that will be all. Please let Nori know I’d like to speak with him as soon as he has a moment.” 

The dwarf in front of him nodded and left. Thorin sighed when the door clicked closed and turned over what he’d been told. His instincts to protect what was his reared their ugly head and tried to demand he set off at once, sword in hand, to extract retribution. His conscious whispered that while Thorin Oakenshield was more than capable of doing so as King Under the Mountain, he couldn’t just up and leave on a quest for vengeance. Especially one that Thorin wasn’t sure Bilbo wanted to take. With another sigh, Thorin reminded himself that Bilbo was the wronged party and there was nothing he could do without knowing how Bilbo felt concerning the situation. If Thorin knew his burglar at all, Bilbo wouldn’t stand with the idea of harming his attackers just because it would make his dwarven friends feel better about not being there to protect Bilbo in the first place. 

Opening his eyes, Thorin was almost unsurprised to find Nori sitting across the table from him. Almost. With a shake of his head, Thorin asked, “Did you speak with Bilbo?” 

Instead of an answer Nori just held up one finger before pointing towards the door. In the next breath, the door opened admitting Dwalin who looked confused until the burly dwarf caught sight of the two of them. Resignation replaced the confusion as Dwalin asked, “Couldn’t send a message like a normal dwarf could you?” 

Thorin watched Nori grin unrepentantly before asking in return, “Where would the fun in that be?” 

Dwalin just rolled his eyes as he took a seat. Thorin nodded and asked both of them, “So what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Concern slithered through his veins when Nori grimaced before explaining, “As you both know my agent that was sent to the Shire returned with the missing pieces to the puzzle that our Bilbo has become. I’m sure she’s still missing things, Hobbits as a whole are secretive, and there’s something about the Shire, in general, that’s queer as a two-bit copper. But we’ve got enough of the pieces to make the picture, and it’s not one I like. To my great disappointment, Bilbo has decided that they are to be left alone unless they come to Erebor and then and only then can we extract retribution in the form of justice by Erebor law. I don’t like it, but that’s what he says he wants.”

Thorin grimaced as well. It wasn’t ideal letting such an insult to the very reason they were in Erebor at all go. But as he had just finished reminding himself, Bilbo was the wronged party, and they had to respect his wishes. It might have been different if Bilbo had been a dwarf, Thorin would have had more authority to order something be done. But Bilbo while being subject to Erebor law wasn’t a subject of Erebor which put the burglar in an unusual position to get whatever he wanted out of the situation. 

“So invite them here.” Dwalin input as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Thorin stared at his Guard Captain for longer than was appropriate.

It was Nori who asked, “Is that wise? To invite a slew of individuals without real authority to Erebor on one pretense or another and then send word back saying sorry but we’ve killed your delegates please send more?”

“No, it’s not and would hurt Erebor’s reputation in the long run,” Thorin replied, but the idea had merit. Perhaps not how Dwalin had envisioned but something similar. 

Looking up at the two of them Thorin gave a cruel smile and said, “But we can send an emissary to the Hobbits on behalf of a citizen of Erebor. Bilbo Baggins was declared Durin-kin and given permission to reside within this mountain for as long as he likes. That was said before he was banished and reinstated afterward because I was mad with gold and let my temper get the best of me.” 

Thorin caught sight of Dwalin’s skeptical look and Nori’s nod as he stopped. Pausing Thorin looked them both over for a moment before deflating and asking, “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

He watched the two dwarves in front of him for a long moment before Dwalin asked, “If you got them to give up the perpetrators what does that change? Bilbo’s still banished from the Shire, and my gut tells me that it’s more than just he can’t go home. So why stir up the beehive?” 

Thorin tugged on his beard in thought. It was a good question. Nori’s head shake caught his attention though as the thief said, “We’re outsiders, our laws and opinions don’t matter to the Shire. They have their own way of doing things, and we’ll just make things worse by trying to force them into anything. I’d like to take a knife to the rabid dogs as much as anyone else in the Company, but I’ve dealt with the Shire before and I’m telling you, they don’t care.” 

Thorin shook his head and said, “So we just let this slide? Let them get away with it while they reap the rewards of getting Bilbo out of the Shire?” 

He had watched Nori shrug before the dwarf replied, “Not so much. Lobelia didn’t get Bag End, and she’s who started all of this as you know. Other than the attack, Bilbo won this contest of wills. Bag End went to his chosen successor as did all the heirlooms contained within it. The holdings are all being handled by a considering hand who by all accounts put the tenants first and the rents second. All that we can take issue with is the fact that Bilbo was attacked in the Shire and branded in a way that their laws allow. Insulting yes, but legal.” 

Thorin gritted his teeth and looked away. The issue felt like a thorn in his side. Annoying and aggravating but not life threatening. He wanted to continue poking at it until a suitable solution could be found. But if both Nori and Dwalin were advising in their own ways to leave things be Thorin would. Perhaps the Shire would be interested in a trade agreement, and he could negotiate punishment of Bilbo’s attackers then. 

Looking at his two closest friends, he told them, “Keep me informed if anything changes. I don’t want to let it go, but as you pointed out Nori, their laws trump our currently.” They nodded back at him. Thorin could see the bitter pill it was to swallow, to sit back and do nothing. Frustrated, Thorin rose and stalked out of the room with every intention of finding Bilbo and spending an afternoon playing hooky from his responsibilities.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had a really difficult time getting it written. But it's here now!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> -Aj

Thorin was pining, he could admit it in the safety of his own mind. Bilbo had settled into Erebor and the gardens Thorin had gifted him with an ease that lifted his heart. That there still wasn’t an actual resolution to the attack his hobbit had suffered grated on the nerves of the entire company. To the point where Thorin had started reading the ancient law books which had been left preserved in the library. Hoping against hope that there would be something written down in ages past that would allow them to avenge their burglar. 

He had skipped out on lunch to try and wade through yet another of the thick tomes. Overall, he didn't have a great deal of luck. Apparently, his Khuzdul had changed just enough during the wandering days that reading the runes was something of a challenge. A fact that baffled Thorin; Khuzdul was meant to be as unchanging as the rock the dwarves cleaved their lives out of. But change it had, and the familiar symbols were arranged in a manner that Thorin couldn’t parse with ease. 

Sighing, Thorin set the book aside and rested his head back against the wall. The sun was harsh this time of year. But, the gardens were nearly three-quarters up the side of the mountain, and the brilliance of the sun created a pleasant contrast to the chilled breeze from the still snow-capped peak.

The grating of the stone door opening came to his ears, and Thorin almost sighed in regret. His time was apparently up and someone, likely Balin, had undoubtedly come to fetch him back to task. With Durin’s Day approaching his schedule was crowded with planning committees insisting that he need to approve their every decision and design. Even though the actual ceremony was still nearly three months away. Thorin didn’t know when or why that had started, but it meant he was lucky to see his rooms before supper and even more lucky if he managed to make it into his bed before midnight. 

He opened his eyes when the sound of iron shoes on stone didn’t reach his ears and promptly jumped to find Bilbo standing in front of him. The Hobbit had his arms crossed over a chest that had finally filled back out. Thorin ran a critical eye over the smaller being and was pleased to note that while it wasn’t the rotund filling that most of Bilbo’s brethren sported it was solid, healthy muscle. There was a short sword resting on his hip that Thorin thought might be an exact match to the blade he had wielded before Orcrist. Something that would be Dwalin’s handiwork. As Dwalin was the only dwarf to dare Thorin’s wrath in such a manner. 

The Hobbit was frowning in a way that usually meant Thorin had done something wrong so Thorin asked with a resigned tone, “What?” 

Watching as the hobbit blinked at him, Thorin sent a little prayer to Mahal that maybe one day they would find themselves on equal footing to become something more than tentative friends, before Bilbo asked in response, “Care to learn a bit about gardening?”

Thorin almost said no without thinking before he came to his senses. Learning about how to take care of the garden would give him time to spend with Bilbo. Time spent with Bilbo was infinitely preferable to anything else he might set his mind to and came with an added benefit of permission to watch until his heart was content. So, Thorin nodded and said, “I would love to learn a bit about your garden.” 

The smile he was graced with made whatever was going to come next worth it. Thorin got lost in that happy look for a moment as Bilbo started pulling tools out of a bag that had arrived with him. All of which were as familiar to Thorin as the weapons his sister-sons carried for they were made by his hands. He wasn’t sure if Bilbo knew that, and felt a thrill of pride when Thorin realized that Bilbo had several sets and only pulled Thorin’s out. Tying back his hair, Thorin happily watched. 

If he listened to Dis and Balin, as King Under the Mountain Thorin had an image to maintain. So, he didn't listen to them. Fona saw to it that he was dressed according to his station and workload for the day. A glance down at the linen, leather, and cotton caused Thorin to hesitate for a moment. Shrugging, he decided that while far too fine to put up with the abuse he was about to inflict on them, Thorin didn’t care. Thorin couldn’t bring himself to care about what Fona and Dori would say when he caught the tiny, happy smile that was gracing Bilbo’s face as the hobbit waded into his flowers and started up rooting plants. Thorin hadn’t seen that smile on Bilbo’s face since Laketown when they had managed to steal a moment of peace.

Even the good-natured ridicule Thorin would face from Dwalin would be worth it to keep that smile on his Bilbo's face for just a little longer. 

Thorin was laughing an hour later once the invasive plants had been uprooted and relocated to a different bed. Bilbo was telling him the story of how his kitchen had lost an entire cart full of chickens in one of the lower halls. Shaking his head as he attempted to set his braids to rights, Thorin could just imagine the picture of Bombur running around with his ladle batting unsuspecting fowl towards his kitchen help. 

When he looked back up, Bilbo was standing in front of him. The look the hobbit was giving him wasn’t one Thorin could decipher. Instead, he waited patiently, trying not to fidget under the in a tense stare. 

Bilbo looked away first. Thorin was just about to make a comment about getting back to his duties when the hobbit surged forward and pressed a chaste kiss to Thorin’s cheek. 

The world froze as Thorin was rendered speechless. Blinking, he took in the half panicked, half terrified look Bilbo was sporting as the hobbit waited for his reaction. Slowly, Thorin reached out and cupped smooth cheeks, gently drawing Bilbo closer so he could press a firm chaste kiss to the hobbit’s lips and sent another prayer out that the hobbit would understand. 

Smiling as he drew back, Thorin let his thumbs brush over the cheekbones under them, watching in fascination as they suffused with a delicate pink blush. It was adorable, and if their relationship had been more established in the realm of physical affection, Thorin would have continued raining kisses on the Hobbit. Instead, he trailed his fingers along Bilbo’s jaw line before sitting back. 

He had wanted permission to touch the hobbit in such a manner from partially the moment they had met, and Bilbo had sassed back at him without any consideration to Thorin. It hadn’t been until much later, after the incident with the Defiler where Bilbo had risked his own life for Thorin’s, that the ever growing need to possess the hobbit had changed into something softer and far less easily ignored. Something with the power to weasel Bilbo’s voice in behind the whispers of gold.

Looking back, Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if it would have actually been a match of equals. Thorin hadn’t yet been crowned King, wearing the title only because it had been demanded of him by his subjects in the Blue Mountains. While Bilbo had been a Lord of impeccable standing and a prince in his own right by the reckoning of everyone outside the Shire. 

They would have found a way to make it work, Thorin was sure, but the relationship would have been rocky without a solid foundation. Now, even though Bilbo had been stripped of everything that had once made him Thorin’s equal in the Shire, they were on an even keel. Bilbo had restored Erebor to the dwarves. That alone would elevate the hobbit’s status far above Thorin’s as the mere King Under the Mountain. 

That they were genuinely friends had only pushed his council to further press the match at Thorin. They thought they were sneaky and underhanded. Thorin hadn’t even needed Nori’s warning that the council had taken a shine to Bilbo. Had apparently decided the hobbit hung the moon and the stars in the night sky, and were planning on doing everything in their power to force a marriage between Thorin and Bilbo to ensure the honor and prestige of housing their greatest sung hero stayed in Erebor's halls. 

The stillness of the garden was broken only when Bilbo mumbled a curse and whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, you just looked so happy…” 

Thorin’s smile dimmed and turned rueful before he replied, “I’m glad you did, though I’ll understand if you’d rather it not happen again.”

He’d waited so long, hoping and praying that this day would come and the hobbit would permit Thorin’s claim. It would be a disappointment beyond measure, and one he would accept and bear with as much dignity as possible. Thorin looked away, towards the rose bush that was settled nearest the bench he frequented whenever in the gardens and tried to school his face into a neutral expression. 

A hand, rough with dirt and work, turned his head until Thorin’s gaze met Bilbo’s. The hobbit’s expression was a study of curiosity and interest before Bilbo said, wonder coloring his tone, “You really mean that.” 

Scowling, Thorin grumbled, “I would be a terrible host if I offered you my protection only for you to require that protection from me.” He paused weighing his next words carefully, before deciding that there likely wouldn’t be another opportune moment, “... I have loved you for years. Even when my mind was not my own and consumed by gold, I loved you. You are brave and selfless, kind to a fault. If I thought for one moment you would have me, I would have offered you my court the moment you stepped foot back in Erebor. I didn’t, and haven’t, because of my grievous actions on the wall. I hoped one day you could find your way to forgiving me.” 

Thorin reached out, slowly, and set his palm against Bilbo’s cheek again. The hobbits hands rose up to wrap around his wrist as Thorin whispered, “I had hoped that friendship could be restored between us, I never dared dream you might find it in your heart to return my affections.” 

Soft lips pressed briefly into his wrist before Bilbo drew his arm down. Fingers traced the creases of his palm almost absently before Bilbo announced gently, “I forgave you before I even made it back to Shire lands. I don’t know if I can return your affections Thorin, I'm not sure if I’m even capable of loving anyone anymore.” 

Thorin tilted his head as he watched Bilbo’s fingers glide gracefully and contemplated the words the hobbit had said before asking, “Explain it to me? Help me understand?” 

The frustrated noise that Bilbo made wasn’t one that Thorin especially wanted to hear in a conversation. Before he could retract his question, the hobbit exclaimed, “I don’t know, Thorin. I’m not the same hobbit who ran out his door after you. I’m not the same hobbit who returned to the Shire. I’m not even the same hobbit who Gandalf dragged here when Elrond couldn’t magically fix me. You’re a king, and I’m just a banished Hobbit without a place in the world.” 

Growling, Thorin pulled Bilbo closer and touched their foreheads together before saying, “You are the superior to every single being that walks these halls. It is by your might, and yours alone, that the dwarves of Erebor stand in our rightful place. My sovereignty is by your grace. All of which has _nothing_ to do with my affection, no matter what rumors you might have heard. Beyond that, I am not asking you into my bed nor will I ever. If that is a place you want to be, I will welcome you with open arms. I am not even asking you to permit me the honor of courting you, though I will with a full and glad heart if it is your wish. All I ask for is your friendship.” 

Bilbo gave him a peeved look before snapping, “Yet you’d be disappointed if I said I didn’t want any more than that friendship.” 

Thorin threw his head back into the rock face as a frustrated noise of his own slipped out, responding, “Yes, I would because I love you and want to wrap you into my world so tightly that there is no difference between us.”

Thorin took a deep breath trying to calm down and continued in a more even tone, “I want you to be happy, and if friendship is all you can trust me to give I will be content.” 

A hand in his tunic jolted Thorin back into looking back at Bilbo before the hobbit’s forehead impacted with his chest. Tentatively, Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s shoulders as a mumbled apology was spoken into his shirt, “I’m sorry. Before Smaug, I dreamed of the moment we’d manage to come together with anticipation, and now that it’s here I can’t be what you need.” 

Thorin shushed Bilbo with gentle fingers through golden curls before telling the hobbit, “I don’t need you to be anything other than Bilbo. There is a great deal I’d like to experience with you, but only if you are in agreement.” 

The shoulders under his arms relaxed as Bilbo mumbled, “I think I’d like to try. Maybe.” 

Wrapping his arms tighter around Bilbo, Thorin promised, “You set the limits and the pace, and I will meet you every step of the way.” 

There was a nod against his chest as Thorin trailed his fingers once more through Bilbo’s hair and over one leaf-shaped ear. The resulting shiver from his actions brought a delighted smile to his face just as the door to the garden was thrown open to bang against the outer wall. Thorin let Bilbo go as the hobbit jumped away and turned to glare at the intruder. 

Making a note of the scar over one eye, Thorin committed the face to memory to have Dwalin deal with later. There was no reason why doors needed to be slammed about without regard for what was on the other side. The garden’s lipped edge was sturdy enough, but enough punishment and Thorin was certain parts would start to tumble off and make it unsafe and unstable.

The dwarf in question was dressed in the standard issue guard armor and seemed to realize he’d done something wrong if the salute that was snapped off was anything to go on. Raising one eyebrow, Thorin drawled, “This had best be important.” 

The guard swallowed, flicked his eyes over to where Bilbo was busying himself with one of the flower beds, before blurting, “Commander Dwalin requests your presence in the refectory, your Highness.” 

Thorin stood up and asked as he gathered his law book, “Did he say why?” 

The guard's answer was prompt, “A Hobbit has come to Erebor, sire.” 

Thorin turned and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. The thrill of acceptance warring momentarily with the rush of vindictive glee that rushed into him the moment the guard had announced the unknown hobbit. A smile transformed Bilbo’s face as Thorin said, “I will see you for dinner.”

Gesturing for the guard to lead the way, Thorin stalked out of the garden intent on some form of revenge. He could only hope that it was someone who deserved the harsh treatment they were about to experience.

~*~

Settling into the flower bed, Bilbo let the flowers offer him what comfort they could, they were just plants after all and knew nothing of matters of flesh and love. Not that Bilbo knew any more than a few fumbling trysts as a tween. 

Now that he had been made aware of it, Bilbo could literally feel the spark of the green magic of the Hobbit. Felt it, and felt drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It was a road that would lead to nothing but pain and suffering. The magic of the Shire was lost to him, and it would forever stay that way. It wasn’t like the banishment was a mistake or would be treated as such. Even if it was, there was nothing anyone could do to change the course that had been taken. Bilbo was now and forever an outcast. 

Petting one of the leaves of the rose bush, Bilbo could only give thanks that his parents hadn’t lived to see how far down he had brought their proud name. His mother would be proud, she had been fierce and wild, traits that had been passed on to Bilbo himself. Looking around his wild garden, Bilbo wondered what would have happened if Thorin and his company had never invaded his smial. If he had never run out the door. 

Wondered if he would still be achingly lonely. 

Shaking his head Bilbo put the thought out of his head and packed up his gardening tools. Just as he was securing the clasps so he could return the bag to his rooms, Nori stepped into the garden. A thunderous look on the thief’s face before saying, “The Thain of the Shire is here to see you.” 

Bilbo froze, fear causing his breath to come in short pants. What did they want now?

Shaking his head, Bilbo took a deep breath and said, “Yea, okay. Lead on.” 

The concerned look Nori treated him too was ignored as a matter of course. Bilbo would break down and freak out later, once he was safely locked away in his rooms. 

The walk down into the mountain seemed to take forever, yet at the same time, Bilbo could have sworn he blinked, and suddenly Nori was pushing open Thorin’s receiving room. The one Bilbo knew that was used for the conversations he had with Bard and Thranduil about the state of all three kingdoms. 

His first look at Uncle Isembras brought to mind a hobbit who had been pushed beyond his limits. Bilbo could understand that; it was how the image in his mirror had looked upon his return to the Shire. The anger that he had spoken to Nori about when the dwarf who had gone to the Shire had returned flared into a white hot fire. Whatever fear had cropped up was effectively swamped under the stronger feeling. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin frown but the dwarf didn’t say anything as Bilbo stalked into the room and took the remaining seat. Glaring across the table as Isembras, Bilbo waited. He could afford to be patient.

Without a word being said, Isembras set a plain wooden box on the table and pushed it halfway over. Bilbo frowned at it. The box was as long and as wide as his hand, but only as tall as his thumb. Plain without visible decoration Bilbo felt a sensation like a sneeze build behind his eyes. There was magic in that box. It called to him. 

Looking up at his uncle, Bilbo merely raised an eyebrow. Isembras sighed and looked every day of his eighty years before saying, “The Shire has made a grievous error. Yavanna’s gift cannot be returned once taken. In its stead, I offer Tribute.”

Frowning, Bilbo opened the box. Inside were carefully sectioned soil samples. Each was from a different part of the Shire, and each sang to him with their magics. It whispered insidiously that all his problems would be solved if he just accepted. No more doubt with Thorin, no more fear of abandonment. No more fear of betrayal. No more struggle to keep his garden growing. 

It was the whisper about his garden that broke Bilbo enthrallment. The garden had survived through two hundred years neglect and a dragon occupation. There wasn’t anything Bilbo could do that would cause it to not keep going except to pull every living thing out of the beds. Blinking, Bilbo sat up, pushed the box away and asked, “Why would I want this?”

The shock on Isembras’ face made Bilbo wonder if perhaps he was being unusual for a hobbit yet again. If the magic of the soil should have ensnared him so completely that he shouldn’t have been able to do anything but accept. Except the dirt was less pervasive than Smaug had been and significantly less insidious than the elves of Mirkwood. Bilbo had faced more potent magic than that of the Shire without succumbing. His uncle swallowed and said, “We made a mistake, this is the only way we have to make it right, to apologize.” 

Bilbo laughed. It had been months since he was cast out. Since he was attacked on the road and _branded_ as if he were no better than cattle. He saw Thorin’s frown deepen but before the dwarf could intervene Bilbo replied, “I carry the mark of greed on me, and will forever more, what has been done to protect others from this same occurrence?” 

He watched as Isembras looked away, shame coloring his Uncle’s cheeks. Of course, nothing had been done; why should they look into their way of life and change anything. Individuals didn’t matter, just the community. Shaking his head, Bilbo said, “I do not accept this Tribute. I do not accept the Shire. I am Bilbo Dragon-Riddler, and here I will stay until my days' end.” 

Suddenly it was like the pieces of his life slotted into place, and everything made sense once more. A glance at Thorin didn’t give Bilbo anything more than the neutral mask that the dwarf wore whenever he was dealing with the public. He felt his lips turning up in a slow smile. This was where he belonged and it had taken him so long to realize it. The scars left ran deep, far deeper than anyone could see but dwarves held scars in reverence. They were the mark of survival, of bravery and courage. Scars were a sign of strength. 

Turning back to Isembras, Bilbo settled down into his chair and murmured, “To you, I am a disgrace, here I am a hero. Please leave and never come back. This is my home now, and you won’t take that from me again.” 

Jolting as Dwalin and Nori both moved to escort Isembras out of the room, Bilbo looked at them owlishly. He’d forgotten they were in the room as well. Running his gaze over them both Bilbo noted a satisfied little smirk on Dwalin’s face that made him look demented and a cruel glint in Nori’s eyes that spoke of mischief. Then they were gone, and the door was closing again. 

A thoughtful look came over his face as Bilbo stared at the closed door. Shaking the thought from his head, Bilbo stood up and moved to stand in front of Thorin. Tilting his head, Bilbo climbed into Thorin’s lap and tucked his head under the dwarf’s chin. Thorin's arms, as hard as steel, came up and wrapped around his shoulders as Bilbo sighed and said, “I was an idiot. I’m sorry. Forgive me?” 

The chest under his cheek had relaxed before Thorin rumbled, “Always.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha! Got one out. So sorry this has taken so long and thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos here. It kept me motivated to keep trying to work on this and get the next chapter out. Sadly, this turned into two chapters rather than one and the second of which is not written yet. This one also turned out much more melancholy than I anticipated. I am still working on this and have every intention to finish it, hopefully before the year is out. 
> 
> Love you all to the moon and back!  
> -Aj

Green marble veined with gold glittered like emeralds and finely crafted jewelry; shimmering distantly with a subtle invitation in the light of the fire. Thorin sat in the throne room, at the foot of his grandfather’s chair. The stairway was cold, winter was indeed on its way, and allowed the heat to be sapped away from his extremities where they pressed against it. The gold in the marble was sleepy to his senses, content to embrace the bitterness of one more northern winter. The smell of it lingered, but this was wild and raw. Tamed only by the passage of time. It didn’t cause him the same trouble as the Raven crown or any other piece of worked gold. Its siren call was further dulled by the chill of the impending season change. Thorin wasn’t quite ready for the snows to start, but that had less to do with the seasons and more to do with his untimely guest. 

So, he sat. Alone in the throne room with the lighting crystals covered and a crackling fire tamely in the excessively opulent hearth. Gaze fixated on the play of light across the stonework. Light versus dark. A battle for dominance that would never be won. He sat, and he thought.

His thoughts were mostly revolving around the extravagance, and the walls that were blessedly steady and intact after the dragon occupation. On the rare occasion Thorin could let go of being King Under the Mountain, the extravagance enraged him. He knew, perhaps better than anyone else alive, that if they’d managed just a bit less _opulence_ then the dragon wouldn’t have come roaring down out of the heights to take away everything. It was a bitter pill to swallow as he looked around his home and watched his crafters work themselves weary to the bone striving to reclaim what they thought was lost. 

Thorin knew though; knew that the most significant of treasures had long been lost, and were few and far between even now. Almost an entire generation of dwarflings. What few hadn’t died in the dragon attack, had succumbed to sickness, cold, or starvation during the wandering days. The smell of their tiny burning corpses still haunted him. The few that had survived were hardened, bitter individuals. Each with a core filled with steel and rage. They were also his most careful crafters and his sanest voices when it came time to make decisions on how to restore Erebor. 

For the most part, Thorin let them be; they had good reason to be hard and bitter. Both at him and at the Dwarven Lords who turned their backs. It was because of them and the memory of their fallen brothers and sisters which had prompted Thorin to sought out the temple of Mahal. Deep in the recesses of Erebor, he had left an offering fit for a king. May the gods themselves have a better use for the Arkenstone, it was nothing but trouble for mortal dwarrow after all. His only hope was that he might someday earn forgiveness for his pride and arrogance. Both of which had taken so much from his people. 

Thoughts of the temple inevitably brought to mind to memories of teaching Fili and Kili the ancient prayers when they were hardly to his knees. Remembered their fumbling with the heavy khuzdul words fondly and their tiny, fearful faces when Kili tripped and dropped the incense. Frerin had done the same thing, Thorin remembered. Thrain had chastised them both harshly for carelessness causing Frerin to be inconsolable for hours. 

Thorin, when the same situation had repeated itself, had merely chuckled and tried to teach his sister-sons that everyone makes mistakes. That honor dictates that those mistakes are accepted with grace, and a dwarf who was a dwarf would help his fallen comrade up so they may both stand mighty. Something Thorin wasn’t sure Thrain had ever learned, as he’d never seen fit to teach it to his children. Thorin and Dis had been forced to learn it through hard life lessons of loss and lack.

A tiny seed of peeve flared behind his eyes. A spark of irritation that with the right fuel would ignite his temper. Everything left from his grandfather was opulent and oh how Thorin hated it. What his life would have been had there been less opulence and more simplicity? 

He would never know, a dragon saw to that. And Azanulbizar stripped whatever security had lingered away. 

But thinking of his grandfather brought him right back to the subject that he wanted to stop worrying. Bilbo’s uncle. Who could have been cut from the same stone as Thror the two were so similar. Who had made the six-week journey, alone and unaided, to give a Tribute to his nephew as an apology. 

Bilbo had chosen Erebor. 

And that moment would always fill Thorin with a fierce pride. When offered everything that had been taken from him within the means of the Hobbits to give, Bilbo had said no and had sought comfort from Thorin. It was a milestone, one which Thorin wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret. His head, well used to guarding his heart, whispered that it was a trap and to tread warily. 

The soft rhythmic tap of a walking stick on stone interrupted his musing drew his attention outward. He’d left word that he wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason other than death and destruction. With a frown, Thoring twisted from his seat on the stairs to the throne, spying Isumbras making an obviously painful trek towards him. 

The picture the old hobbit presented showed him a glimpse into the future. He could see the familiar features of Bilbo in the weathered, withered image slowly dragging old bones towards him. Thorin would never reach that stage of age. He would get old, just like any other creature. His hair would go to the silver already streaking his raven black locks. If he was graced to live long enough his limbs might wither, and his shoulders might hunch. But dwarves were made for war and work. Even old Lofar had never needed a crutch to ensure his mobility. Dwarves naturally didn’t age the same.

The image of Isumbras slowly dragging himself along made a ping of pain resound through him. Like the sound of a poorly forged blade in the quench Thorin realized that Bilbo would reach this state far sooner than Thorin himself would reach actual old age. In just a few decades his beloved burglar would be an aching, nearsighted old hobbit sometimes cranky and sometimes absently going on about back in his day. The image brought a faint hint of a smile to him. Even aged far past his prime, Thorin was well able to imagine the happy feeling of contentment at returning from long hours of dealing with governance to Bilbo curled up in his armchair. It was a common enough sight at the end of his days now.

Blinking, Thorin let the fantasy fade. Isumbras, panting slightly standing at the bottom of the stairs remarked, “They said I’d find you here, brooding and unfit for company.” 

Thorin hummed in agreement and said, “They would be right.” 

He would find it in him to be courteous, for Bilbo and his kingdom if nothing else. Looking down, Thorin shifted so he fully faced Isumbras. The hobbit bowed his head and grumbled, “You must think so little of me, to abandon my family for my duties.” 

Thorin grimaced and prayed to Mahal that there would never be a time when he ceased being reminded of his failures as King of the Lonely Mountain dwarves. He might think that Isumbras had little in the way of fortitude and spine. But, as Thorin reminded himself frequently about Bilbo, Isumbras was a hobbit. Not a dwarf. And not a dwarf of Erebor at that. The life experiences between the two were nearly incompatible. Bilbo’s compassion and pride had won out over stubbornness during the long journey east. Thorin’s clever little burglar had taught as much as he’d learned. Isumbras had never been permitted that opportunity. 

Shaking his head, reminded of how life was different with the weight of the beads in his hair, Thorin said, “I question your priorities, but a King or his equivalent is one who is taught to make hard decisions. Be they right or be they wrong. It falls on a King’s shoulders to make the decision that is going to be best for the whole, even if it is personally distasteful.” 

He thought of the hours spent negotiating with Thranduil. Of the few but significant concessions which had been granted by both of them. With a shrug of a shoulder, Thorin waited and wondered just what Isumbras was looking for from him. The fire popped in the background, the hiss of boiling sap a drawn-out sigh. They stayed like that for an eternal moment before Isumbras said, “Your words, while true, offer little comfort Master Dwarf.”

Thorin snorted a sound of dark amusement and contempt, before stating, “My words off no comfort, the truth is a cold, hard thing with little concern for waffling mortals who deal with ambiguities. Truth either is or is a lie. There is no shade of meaning within the words of truth.” 

A noise of dismay sounded from the bottom of his stairs drawing Thorin’s attention downward to regard the elderly hobbit. Isumbras stood, leaned against his walking stick, head bowed down and face hidden behind snow-white curls. Suddenly, Isumbras threw his head up, and Thorin caught a fierce glint before Isumbras asked, “Shall I never be rid of my mistake then? Shall it always haunt me?” 

Thorin shook his head and said, “May we only be so lucky as never to forget our greatest shortcomings. You might wish to forget, but I do not. Let the dead haunt me, let their pitiful, blank gazes stare out at me from the shadows. Let them whisper on the wind all of my choices which lead to their untimely demise. Let them remind me of the falsehood of pride which led to their burning. I embrace the suffering they wield for it _will_ make me a better King. And I pray to Mahal that their voices are never silenced, their gazes never dampened, and their grip never weakened. Only fools wish to erase the past. It is set in stone and can no longer bear influence, but the wisest among us know that it may still influence _us_ , and thus the future might be brighter for it.” 

Thorin leaned back on his elbow and glared down at the hobbit. How alike were Isumbras and Bilbo, Thorin mused. Both so able to arouse his temper or his compassion. He could see where the traits that he loved best about his burglar had come from, see who had nurtured them into completion. There was a wildness in Bilbo that gave him the courage to do foolhardy stunts. Standing firm in the sights of ancient beings, vile destroyers, and rampaging wizards took a spirit few could boost, and fewer could break. Thorin had witnessed both the shattering and the repairing of that wildness. Found it all the more precious for the knowledge that it was more crystal than well-worked steel. Indestructible until just the right spot was hit and then capable of shattering into a thousand pieces.

Thorin watched Isumbras turn his face away. Glare still present, Thorin let his gaze become critical. Looking for flaws in the Hobbit the same as he would a blade made by an apprentice. Took in once more the stooped shoulders and the gnarled hands, the iron rods for shins and hairless feet. Recognized once more that Isumbras was old, far older than Thorin for all their years were vastly reversed. The strength in Isumbras had been brittled by time, and Thorin could see where the cracks had started to form. Could see where the tang had warped under the pressures of responsibility. Could see where the hilt had begun to loose from the whole. This was not a blade fit for battle. Still sharp and spoiling for a fight like all the best weapons but as likely to fail as triumph. 

Isumbras had become a blade fit only for decoration. To be displayed on a wall where dwarflings could point and beg their parents to tell the story just one more time. Thorin refused to allow himself to feel pity as he would if Isumbras had actually been a weapon brought to him for repair. 

Instead, Thorin reminded himself that this was the hobbit who had signed away Bilbo’s safety. Isumbras might not have had a hand in the destruction, nor the disfiguration, but Thorin just the same wouldn’t forgive the capitulation that had brought Bilbo to Erebor so sick in heart and spirit that Gandalf and Lord Elrond had been concerned that the hobbit would merely give up the will to live and waste away. Or worse. Thorin grimly reminded himself that there were worse fates to the heartsick than wasting sickness.

“Not all of us have the fortitude to do likewise.” 

Isumbras’s soft words made Thorin growl under his breath. Such a cowardly thing to say. A sharp jerk of his head brought Thorin’s gaze back to the blaze in the hearth, and he scowled furiously in an attempt to temper the fire of rage which threatened to consume him. Gritting his teeth, Thorin snarled as he pushed himself upright and started to stalk down the stairs and away from the infuriating old hobbit, “Then you are a fool, and I suffer enough fools through my days to not wish to linger.” 

The doors of the throne room did not bang into the walls as he threw them open, nor did they slam closed when he paced through them. Their crafting too well executed to permit such angry usage. Wisely, the guards took in his black look and let him be without comment. 

Thorin let his feet and anger lead him as he strode up stairs and down halls. Took in the familiar sights and noted the subtle changes that were being installed to make Erebor just as magnificent but less tempting for any further remaining wyrms. Exquisite stone carvings had started replacing the elegant designs of gold and precious gems. Painted murals of sung deeds displaced tapestries woven with threads of gold and silver. Marble statues were erected to replace the ones of mithril and gold the dragon had hoarded. 

Each detail he took note of dulled the edges of his temper, each bridge he crossed which held the signs of repair brought chinks into his armor of rage. So it was when his feet finally brought him to the doors of Bilbo’s little library that Thorin was more weary than enraged. He hesitated, a hand resting on the warm surface of the wooden doors. Once the wing this room of learning resided in had been a dwarfling cloister for the priests of Mahal. Once, it had been an honor among honors to be chosen to serve at the smith-god’s forges.

When he was just a lad touring the city with his grandfather, Thorin had looked upon the simple wooden doors and smoothed stone walls in abhorrence. Not understand that the lack of decoration was not a lack of skill or pride but a conscious choice of piety. The acolytes lived modestly and reverently turned their skill and craft to honoring their Maker and preserving the history that had brought the line of Durin to its height. 

Now, it was empty and echoing. Cold without the forges lit, save for this one little room. His fingers trailed over a painstakingly carved knot of peace before Thorin leaned his forehead against the door. Despite his bold words to Isumbras, there were times when the past was a heavy burden on his shoulders. One which Thorin wished he could set aside, if only for a moment to catch his breath. 

The surface under his forehead shifted and pulled away as the door was opened. Snapping his head up, Thorin took a step back. Realizing a moment too late that his feet had led him to Bilbo not just Bilbo’s refuge. They stood there, each staring at the other before Bilbo shook his head and said, “Might as well come in and stop darkening the doorway. I suppose you’re here for a purpose. There’s a pair of armchairs next to the fire that’ll do and a sniffer of decent tobacco to ease the words.” 

Unwillingly, Thorin felt the corners of his lips turn up in a fond smile. When faced with a problem Hobbits had one answer. Comfort. In whatever manner was available at hand.

Stepping past the threshold into a space that had once been forbidden, Thorin took in the details. It was obvious enough to see that the restoration hadn’t been done by his dwarven crafters. Thorin recognized the curling, swirling designs that had been painfully hand-carved into the woodwork from Bag End. The flowing designs had reminded him of mountain rivers at the time; now they suggested to him the careful curls of the plants and flowers Bilbo had shown him in the hobbit’s gardens. There was peace in the elegant knot work. There were no harsh lines here, no angles, yet at the same time, he could see where the influences of dwarven culture had inspired a particular knot or braid. 

Thorin followed Bilbo to a pair of Durin blue armchairs and settled into the one he was shown. Behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of his subjects, he was just Thorin. A feat that Bilbo managed to remind him of frequently without ever having to say a word. Tilting his head back, Thorin sighed into the comfort of the small fire and the soft cushions. So different a refuge that the chilled stone stairs and distance fire of the throne room.

The sharp, acrid smell of a match being struck tickled his nose for a moment before it was replaced with the more earthy scent of pipe tobacco. Not the Old Toby Bilbo was so fond of, Thorin noted but still something much more mild than would typically be found anywhere outside of the kitchens. He made a mental note of it, perhaps one of his courting gifts could be seeds so that Bilbo could grow his own. 

A pipe being gently placed into his hand caused Thorin to startle up. Smiling ruefully, he took a drag on the pipe and savored the smoke before releasing it in a plume. He had little patience for smoke rings at the moment. They sat like that for a time, passing the pipe between them and watching the fire burn. In the end, Thorin sighed, leaned his head back gaze lost somewhere beyond the ceiling and said quietly, “There are days where I wonder if I am truly fit to rule Erebor. Where I wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be better to abstain the throne to Fili or Dain.” 

A thoughtful noise came from the other armchair. Thorin didn’t turn his gaze away though. He’d never voiced such sentiments aloud, and if it were any being other than Bilbo likely would never have voiced them at all. Bilbo was in a unique position of being outside of Thorin preview. A prominent figure of Erebor, yet untouchable by her rule makers. Thorin was grateful for it. Bilbo being accountable to the laws was one thing but the hobbit was not a member of Thorin’s court and didn’t answer to him as King. It let them meet as equals and helped Thorin to remember that he didn’t want just to demand Bilbo capitulate to his whims. He wanted exactly what Bilbo was, someone to confide in and someone who would call him out when he wasn’t sensible.

“I suppose you could do just that, find somewhere to live out the rest of your days in quiet solitude without the responsibility of atoning for your past. Leave it to Fili or Dain to restore the glory of Erebor and the glory of dwarves.”

Thorin hummed, acknowledging Bilbo’s words as he dropped his gaze back down to the fire. There was a crackling hiss as Bilbo took a deep drag on the pipe. Smoke rings followed, each a perfect example of it’s kind before dissipating. Settling back farther into the chair, Thorin waited. A sigh came from his side before Bilbo remarked, “Not a very good legacy to leave though, shirking the weight of everything you’ve worked your entire life for. Not very good song material.” 

Thorin chuckled and replied, voice ripe with earnest sarcasm, “Oh yes, because every dwarf lives their life with the expectation of being made into a song for all the lands to abide.” 

A snort drew Thorin’s gaze in time to see Bilbo’s golden curls shiver before delighted laughter burst forth into the room. A fond smile stole over his features, crinkling the corners of his eyes as Thorin chuckled in response to Bilbo’s amusement. Merriment reigned alongside the sounds of the fire before Bilbo said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “I suppose I deserved that. But in all seriousness Thorin, if I remember my lessons from Balin correctly, once crowned a King of Erebor is on the throne no matter his competency until death. So how do you propose to get around that?” 

Thorin sighed. He’d given this enough thought to actually have an answer and said, “There are dangers that yet lurk deep in the dark halls slowly being recovered. It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch of the imagination to make them all believe an accident had befallen me on one of the routine inspections.” 

He was forced to look over as Bilbo made a noise of distaste before nastily sneering, “A cowards way.” 

Thorin nodded acknowledging the sentiment and remarked, “There is a great deal of me that is not brave, or true, or strong my burglar. Would you dismiss me so for being honest?” 

That earned him a look of reproach before Bilbo said, “No, but the Thorin I know would never give in to despair so easily. Would never lay down his sword in surrender. Not if it was the wise course of action. Especially if it were the wisest course of action.” 

There was a quirked eyebrow at him before Thorin shook his head and asked,“And you know me so well Master Dragon-Riddler?” 

The Company had ceased to call Bilbo hobbit after Nori had noticed how Bilbo flinched each time it was given. The census had been reached to call Bilbo Dragon Riddler or Burglar instead of hobbit. These days it didn’t seem to matter quite so much, but still, they were ever so careful. Their Hobbit was such a precious thing. They would not do him the dishonor of treating him as fragile for there was more strength in Bilbo Baggins than any four dwarves put together, but precious all the same.

“I think Master Dwarf, I might just know you well enough. Well enough to know that it is not duty that drags your spirits down, nor is it your abominable council, nor the Lords of the Iron Hills. I might even be willing to wager that it’s not responsibility either.” Bilbo’s voice broke the quiet in a thoughtful tone. Thorin watched as the pipe stem was tapped gently against Bilbo’s lip before the hobbit continued, “Perhaps it’s frustration, though if my reckoning is correct, it should also be nearing the anniversary of the Company’s first true encounter with Azog after surviving the goblin caves.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow in response before he replied gently, “It is closer to the anniversary of Azanulbizar and the past bears the heavyweight of costly ignorance and stubborn pride.” 

The wince he caught from Bilbo forced him to add, “The memories are heavy with guilt and regret but bear little pain. Death in battle is the highest honor a dwarf can conceive. It has always been what came next that haunts me, as it should.” 

He saw Bilbo nod before saying, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Thorin inclined his head in gratitude and explained, “You’re uncle sought me out expecting absolution I suppose. Or perhaps advice on obtaining your forgiveness in his complacency. I can only assume he is under the impression I hold some magical answer that will become the solution to his every regret. With the advent of Durin’s Day and the anniversary of Azanulbizar fast approaching my melancholy was pushed out of sorts by his foolish words.” 

Hands pushing at him, startled Thorin as Bilbo said, “Bunch over you great lump.” 

He shifted over as far as the chair would permit and was surprised and pleased when Bilbo curled up into his side in the bit of space leftover. Thorin felt a sigh before Bilbo said, “My uncle should learn to mind his manners and remember that forgiveness isn’t guaranteed and I don’t have to grant him anything. I’m also being bitter and petty about the entire thing I know.”

Thorin shook his head and said, “Bitter, perhaps. With good cause. But you are not petty. Offering you a box of dirt doesn’t give you back your home, or the heirlooms lost. Doesn’t give you back your place in the world.”

Thorin felt Bilbo stiffen before whispering, “It’s not just dirt Thorin, there’s magic. Powerful, ancient magic contained in that soil. A sample from every corner of the Shire. To give back a pale imitation of what they took when I was banished. Accepting it means I accept the Shire laws and submit to their right to governance. I would rather remain an outcast as the Dragon-Riddler than give them a second chance to harm me.”

Thorin was quiet for a moment, mulling over the words Bilbo had said. As he thought, Thorin curled an arm around Bilbo and buried his nose in soft curls. Absently noting the scent of woodlands and pine as he breathed. “So there is more to being a hobbit than just being born in the Shire than?” He finally asked.

The head under his nose nodded before Bilbo said, “Every hobbit is born with a spark of green magic. It helps us hear the plants and know how to make them grow better, stronger. It binds us to the Shire and calls us homeward if ever we step foot farther out the door than Bree.”

It was Thorin’s turn to nod as he asked, tone as gentle as possible, “And that they took from you?”

The miserably whispered, “Yes” was accompanied by Bilbo tensing in his arms and curling further into his side. Thorin held on tightly, trying to let the hobbit know that while he didn’t understand he was there. This he supposed was the trauma they had mistaken for something more violent. The removal of the green spark. Something intrinsic to _being_ a hobbit must have been an excruciating violation. This was what they had mistaken for iron sowing. Bilbo wasn’t finished though and in that same voice explained, “Removing the green spark is the basis of banishment. The ancients didn’t want madness to corrupt the magic, so instead those deemed unfit to live within hobbit society are stripped of the connection all hobbits share with the Shire. The rest is just legal formalities designed to appease the masses.” 

Thorin sneered but held his tongue. Erebor had similar laws and customs. He didn’t have any right to point fingers and say something was barbaric when his people did worse, and through his studies of the laws, had found out that the past held even more barbaric customs. Most of which had fallen out of practice and were forgotten.

There was something broken that Thorin could hear in Bilbo’s voice as his companion continued, “Few hobbits who have been banished live out a normal lifespan. Most end up just outside the borders of the Shire and fall prey to the wolves in the winter or the bears in the spring. Those few who are more courageous and seek out the elves never seem to live more than a decade. I’m not expecting my fate to be any different.” 

Thorin felt a familiar shot of pain at the words. A feeling not unlike getting stabbed. He would lose his hobbit. A fact he’d always known, even middle-aged himself he still had at least another century of life before the call to the Halls came. Closing his eyes he tried to memorize how it felt to sit curled together in front of a fire. These memories would be few and the moments that made them fewer than anticipated. A decade was nothing when you saw the passage of centuries. 

Thorin whispered, “I shall cherish every moment possible.” It was the only thing he could think of to respond with. Grief would eat away at him later, when he was alone and his rooms were silent. For now, he savored the feeling of Bilbo being safe and warm in his arms for this moment was far more important than the next. He would have years to act out the moments that came next.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just keeps growing... But I've managed to set up for a possible sequel (ugh, why do I do this to myself???) and introduced Bilbo's salvation. No idea how long this is going to take now ladies and gentlemen but have another chapter. :)  
> -Aj

The garden was cold. The plants silent in their winter slumbers. Even the stone seemed to radiate the dropping temperatures. Chilling even Bilbo's sturdy feet until all he wanted was a warm fire and soft slippers. But his comfortable armchair in his tidy little rooms wouldn't get the season's deadfall pulled out of the gardens or see the bushes trimmed back in preparation for next spring's new growth. So, bundled up tight in a double quilted, fur-lined coat with sturdy leather work gloves and a gaily colored scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, Bilbo braved the falling temperatures and dreary gray weather to continue tending the gardens. He was almost finished. Just two small beds left to clear out in preparation for winter. Then he could hang the coat in his wardrobe until spring. 

And be bored out of his skull each afternoon when he ran out of his self-appointed little chores. 

Bilbo sighed as he twisted around a shrub to get at some grass he hadn't even known was growing behind it. Perhaps, Bilbo thought as he ripped at the stubborn dry mess he'd check with Balin. There might be something in the royal archives or library that was hobbit sized and would fill his afternoons for the winter. "Or worst case, I'll sit in on Thorin's council meetings. Bet they'd behave better with a _guest_ present." Bilbo mumbled to the shrub as he sat back with the grass in hand. Tossing it over his shoulder towards the walkway, Bilbo shifted over to the next section of that needed his attention. Stone grating across stone sounded its grumbling call echoing off the cliff face all around him. Announcing a visitor.

Thorin had offered to have it fixed, but Bilbo had declined. He'd found himself much jumpier at sudden intrusions. Especially those that happened while he was working in the garden and liked knowing when someone came or went. Even Nori had started to use the door instead of whatever secret entrance the former thief had preferred. Bilbo was grateful for the Company and all the little things each dwarf did to make him feel both comfortable in Erebor and to ease his fears and paranoia. Bilbo was well aware that there was little to fear in Erebor so long as he stuck to the roads and paths which had been declared safe for public consumption. 

His face was a regular down in the markets, as each guild set up little bazaars where their crafters could sell their wares and take special orders. He might not have any coin to spend, but it was nice to get out and about just to have a chat or two with the merchants. To learn about the dwarves and dwarrowdams who made Erebor sing. 

"Over here!" Bilbo called out when dwarven boots didn't immediately sound on the stone towards him. Assumed that it was Nori or Fili; either coming to rant about one of the dwarven lords or yet another 'idiot adventurer who almost got themselves killed'. Bilbo sighed and admitted to himself that Fili also came to him to complain about Thorin, but it wasn't like there was anything Bilbo could change about those conflicts. Fili was just old enough to have his own way of doing things, and Thorin had a horrible habit of not listening to what people were saying while they were saying it. He'd absorb the conversation and mull it over before coming back later and announcing his decision. Fili, Bilbo sighed, just didn't quite understand that yet and wanted his Uncle to accept his ideas at the very moment they were presented. 

Frowning when he still didn't hear dwarven boots on his walkways, Bilbo turned around and waded out to take a look, the guards sometimes wouldn't walk any further onto the terrace than the stoop of the door. Instead of finding a dwarf, Bilbo caught sight of his Uncle. Poking his nose into the beds that Bilbo had already finished. All the while quietly humming. Covering a grimace of distaste as he hopped down out of his bed, Bilbo made his way over to Isumbras. He leaned against the edge of the raised bed and waited. Old habits of respect died hard.

"What a magnificent garden you have here Bilbo. Quite an impressive feat, if I do say so myself." 

Bilbo ground his teeth and felt a headache starting in his temples. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Bilbo said, “Yavanna nurtures all plants, Uncle. Not just those found in the Shire. I’m sure the dragon occupation of Erebor and the tainted magic that infused everything left helped as well.” 

He watched his Uncle nod absently murmuring, "Of course, of course. Still impressive to find a hobbit garden without a hobbit attending it." 

Bilbo looked away. His teeth ached with the force he was clenching them. Gazing out towards the mist-shrouded Withered Heaths Bilbo took deliberate breaths to calm his temper and absently wondered if perhaps he was spending too much time with dwarves; since his humor was so unsure that he couldn't even manage a conversation with someone whom he didn't like. That was out of character for him. Shaking his head Bilbo snapped, "I promise you, Uncle, I am only the shepherd here. This garden survived two hundred years of neglect and dragon occupation. All I've done is pulled and pruned as anyone with a bit of knowledge could do in my stead. Any of the dwarves below could have gotten the same results had any of them the inclination to try." 

The white curls in his peripheral vision swayed back and forth as Isumbras nodded and remarked, "True, true. But they are beings of stone and fire and tempting a garden into thriving is a feat beyond them as everyone knows. You were born a hobbit. Plant lore and green things were once in your veins. That this garden responded to you at all is a feat almost equivalent of it raining backward. I'm sure _you_ can't hear it, but those few plants which haven't tucked themselves away for winter just yet sing your praise and glory." 

Something inside Bilbo snapped. With anger thrumming through every part of him, Bilbo spun on his heel and snarled, "Listen here you old fuddy. You were the one to make me this way, you were the one to sign the banishment. You were the one who ripped the green spark from me and had the audacity to pat me on the head like an errant child. I have done more with my half of life than you will even contemplate and you no longer have the privilege of speaking to me as if I am your nephew. You have cast me out, you have condemned me to this existence, so you do not get to come into my home and my garden and patronize me about how well it is growing despite my lack of magic. Especially when it was you who caused that lack. Leave my sight and never darken these steps again."

A slow clap sounded from behind him, and Bilbo twirled. Horrified to have been seen losing his temper so spectacularly. Bofur stood there, nearly black from coal dust and grinning a delighted cruel smirk. Bilbo felt his jaw drop at the sight and his eyebrows rise up towards his hairline when Bofur walked forward leaving visible footprints of soot. Once close enough the dwarf said, "Oh now that was somethin’ ta see. And we've been waitin’ on that since this here rockrunt stepped foot in the door. Good on ya laddie, good on ya." 

Bilbo nodded, shocked and dismayed. About what, Bilbo couldn't quite say. Shaking his head, Bilbo asked, "What brings you to my garden today Bofur?" 

The grin came back, this time friendly and good-humored as Bofur said, "Thorin said ta fetch ya. Seems he has need of your counsel on the East Gate." 

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo nodded. Spinning on his heel, he stalked across the garden towards his door. He paused on the threshold to turn and glare at Isumbras for a moment before darkly announcing, "You are as dead to me as I am to you. Leave me to live my remaining years in peace." 

Without waiting to see how his words were received, Bilbo fled towards the East Gate. Whatever Thorin wanted would be a welcome distraction. 

~*~

"That is not Dain, I swear by Mahal's beard." 

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered where Bilbo was and why the hobbit hadn't appeared to solve their dilemma. Nori was adamant that the rider in the distance wasn't Dain Ironfoot. But Thorin didn't know of any other dwarf who had a flame red beard and rode a black boar. Sighing, Thorin asked in resignation, "Then who is it if not Dain?" 

The former thief made a noise of frustration before saying, "I don't know. All I know is that whoever that _is_ they sit that boar too well to be Dain. Dain rides like a sack of potatoes, and you know it." 

Thorin hid his grimace behind the hand that was still pinching the bridge of his nose. Nori was right after all. Dain rode like his mount was supposed to do all the work of keeping him in the saddle. It was one of the reasons why the Iron Hills even had a breeding program for the war boars. They'd had to in order to find animals who were smart enough to compensate for Dain's abysmal riding skills. Skills that his cousin refused to hone. Apparently, not falling off was skilled sufficiently for Dain. Thorin grimaced again and looked out over the ramparts at the distant blob of red and black. He wasn't an expert, but Thorin conceded that Nori was right. Whoever was out there slowly coming closer wasn't Dain Ironfoot.

Thorin sighed and brushed a hand over his braids. Mumbling obscenities about elves and his youngest sister-son, he took up the eyeglass again. This time trying to find a clan marking on the well-worn armor the rider was wearing. Unsurprisingly he found none. It was well made and well worn but almost dull by dwarven craftsmanship styles. There was little in the way of decoration or design and absolutely nothing of the smith who designed it or the stronghold to which the stranger hailed from.

Thorin couldn't fathom what that meant. No dwarf took to the world to wander alone. It just wasn't done. Dwarves, one and all, wanted the comforts of stone and metal and _home_. Even when he and his people were wanderers, they traveled from cave to stone fortress and back again. Residing in the same places each time they visited a village or town. They always moved on together as well. Setting the glass back down Thorin sighed again just as a hand brushed his elbow. Scowling Thorin turned and immediately stopped. Bilbo was by his side looking pale and worried. His scowl deepening into a concerned frown Thorin opened his mouth to ask what the matter was when Bilbo cut him off and asked, "You wanted to see me?"

His teeth snapped together at the reminder of why he was on the East gate at all. Nodding briskly, Thorin explained, "There is a rider on the plains coming this way which bears a striking resemblance to my cousin Dain," Nori made a noise that drew Thorin's gaze. The other dwarf was scowling madly, and Thorin rolled his eyes before continuing, "We've concluded that it isn't Dain. Whoever it rides far to well to be Dain and doesn't bear any of the clan insignias. Dain is ridiculously proud of the Iron Hills settlement that his Grandfather founded, and he has nearly single-handedly ensured thrived. He would never ride out without some marker of his home. And frankly would be just as likely to have a banner as an entourage." Thorin paused a moment considering his cousin before concluding, “Probably both just so no one is mistaken about who is arriving.”

He watched Bilbo nod before the hobbit held out a hand for the eyeglass. Thorin handed it over without comment. He absolutely loved how Bilbo treated him no differently than any other dwarf. As if there was nothing distinctive about Thorin requiring consideration. No matter where they were or who might be around. A tiny grin began to form as Thorin watched Bilbo use the glass to get a better look at the rider. It had been a week since their conversation where Thorin had learned that Bilbo had only a few short years remaining. Nothing between them had precisely changed, but each encounter had taken on new meaning for Thorin. 

Thorin wanted to remember, wanted to form memories that would last so that he might always have some kernel of Bilbo to keep with him. Against Bilbo's wishes, he had informed the Company. They deserved to know how little time they had left with their Hobbit and to know to make the most of it. He didn't tell them why. That he felt was a piece of knowledge that was sacred. Secrets of a people Thorin didn't understand and had little love for. So it was that they all, one and all, of the Company, were doting in their own ways on Bilbo. 

He had also been back down to the temple and had seen the signs the others had been as well. Some of the offering he could identify. The fist-sized hunk of rock holding one of the purest emeralds Thorin had seen come out of the mines would have been from Bofur, the rough carved wooden toy that bore a striking resemblance to Bilbo standing up to Azog would be Bifur. An elegantly crafted serving spoon would have been from Bombur and his lovely wife. Him for the casting and her for the jewel setting. There was a set of quill nibs that could have been from Balin, Dori or Ori. He was pretty sure the tiny, elegantly pulled glass flowers were from Nori, who had a secret love of creating delicate works of glass art and then leaving them for their recipients to find. Then there was the pair of tiny daggers. 

Thorin had stared at them for an interval wondering who the smith was. There was no maker’s mark visible, but it was clear they had been designed for someone with a smaller, and lighter, build than any dwarf. 

Those had been the offerings that Thorin felt sure had come from the Company. There had been other offerings, a bag of silver coins with the mark of the Shire on them, forty-two feathers from a swan, six tiles from a dwarfling counting game Thorin hadn't been aware was even still played. A cornet of delicately set diamonds and opals made to resemble frosted leaves. Those were gifts that were unquestionably from individuals who knew and cared deeply for the hobbit, but without more information, he had no idea who had left each gift.

There had also been twelve plain gold beads to which Thorin had added one more with a rueful grin. Seeing them all lined up on the edge of Mahal's statue had cut deeply. Somehow it felt as if they had all failed. 

Thorin knew, that if he picked each one up, it would bear a single mark of Khuzdul each. A visual representation of what Bilbo meant to each of the givers. They were traditional coming of age presents. And while Bilbo was already of age for his people Fili and Kili had come up with the idea that they should celebrate the hobbit's next birthday as if Bilbo was a dwarf newly christened an adult by Erebor's standards. To welcome Bilbo to Erebor as a dwarf after they had found out about the banishment. The Company had been wildly excited about it. 

To see the beads offered to Mahal instead of their hobbit had hit Thorin hard. Tears had burned his eyes as he had laid down his offering of Snow Bells. An austere white flower that bloomed late in the fall right before the first snows. They were seen as a sign of hope and traditionally given (in one form or another) to sweethearts to test a potential partners receptiveness to courting. Thorin had faith that Mahal would understand what he didn't have words to say. 

Even now, looking down from the East gate, Thorin could see more of the Snow Bells blooming. Each tiny bloom no bigger than the pad of his thumb. The sight of them made him wonder, yet again, just how many seasons would he get with Bilbo? 

Movement from the Hobbit as Bilbo handed the eyeglass to the guard standing at Thorin's other elbow drew his attention. He watched as Bilbo sighed and announced, "It's not Dain, nor is it any dwarf I've met." 

Thorin grimaced and announced, "Very well. Let them enter permitted they come peacefully. They're likely a lord of some sort knowing my luck so send a note to Balin to arrange an appointment in my schedule for a the meeting I'm sure they'll want." 

The guard nodded and started off to carry out his orders. Bilbo, Thorin noticed, only moved forward to cross his arms over the stonework. The flare of concern that had started when Bilbo first arrived returned full force. Moving so he could stand next to Bilbo and block most of the wind whipping around the side of the mountain Thoring asked, "What's happened?"

There was a humorless laugh from Bilbo before the hobbit said, "Just a little disagreement with my Uncle. I might have told him to leave and never come back." 

Delighted as he was, Thorin suppressed a grin, this was obviously bothering Bilbo. So instead Thorin said, "I fail to see the issue here. It is your right and privilege to decide who you deal with and who you do not. I can have him expelled from the Mountain should you so wish it." 

He watched as Bilbo gave a negative shake to his head before saying, "No, Isumbras is near his end. Sending him out into the world now will likely kill him. I doubt he'll see the spring as it is. He's old, and age has a way of catching up with you when it's least expected." 

Thorin nodded, sensing that Bilbo wasn't entirely talking about his Uncle. Reaching out, carefully telegraphing his movements Thorin ran gentle fingers through soft golden curls. His action garnered a sigh of content from Bilbo. Watching as green eyes, usually so sharp softened and closed as Bilbo leaned further into the caress, Thorin let his frustration go. For the span of a heartbeat, all he did was memorize each detail of the moment carefully.

His concentration was broken by inarticulate grumbling as Bilbo shifted, so they were pressed side to chest. Pleased with the affection, Thorin grinned widely and continued his gentle ministrations. Careful not to tug when his fingers encountered windswept tangles. His gaze returned to lock on the figure slowly growing across the plain while his attention was firmly on Bilbo.

The shoulder against his chest slumped before Bilbo said, voice barely a whisper, “I am so tired of pretending everything is fine. Pretending I’m the same person that came here with you to face a dragon.” 

A rumbling noise escaped Thorin before he could think better of it. He consciously kept his hands gentle as they reached for Bilbo even as the hobbit took his growl as one of displeasure and started to move away. 

Cupping a cheek and holding a shoulder to keep Bilbo from running away, Thorin said, “I’m not upset. At least, I am not upset with you. You must do whatever it takes to heal from this ordeal. That is something no one can help with. It must be you who decides which parts of the original to be kept and you who decides how you face the world. The rest of us who love you can only stand back and keep patience as you sort it out. Can only offer the hand to help you stand back up to try again when you fall.”

Thorin’s thumb brushed Bilbo’s cheek. Like leaf-shaped ears, he was fascinated with the sharp cheekbones so unlike anything he could find in a dwarf. Every moment he had to appreciate them, either by word or deed, was one he took. Smiling, Thorin finished, “We will help you as much as we can, and we will be standing there on the other side ready to walk step for step next to you into the next battle. But this you must do on your own.” 

The eyes he so fondly stared into closed as a single tear trailed down Bilbo’s cheek. Thorin wiped it away and pulled Bilbo close to wrap him in a firm hug. Resting his cheek on Bilbo’s head, Thorin said, “We understand you know. How deeply a scar can cut and how the pain can linger even though it has healed. Dwarves are superior to the other races in that way.” 

There was a sniff against his chest, and Thorin made up his mind. It was perhaps long since past that Bilbo knew a bit more dwarrow lore. Releasing a breath like a sigh, Thorin began, “The dwarves were made for war and work it has been said. We were carved from the very stone we make our homes and have gifts for finding precious metals and gems, for knowing the stone. Every dwarf has this ability, this sensitivity. Bofur more so than most. The Longbeards, the direct line of Durin, have always been susceptible to gold above all others. Without the right people by our sides, it drives us mad. All of that you know. One thing you might not is that dwarves alone out of all the races understand scars.” 

Thorin felt Bilbo scoff, though the hobbit didn’t raise his head. Smile gentling at the movement, Thorin continued, “Yes, we find beauty in them because they show strength. Which you know and have likely been told a thousand times since you returned. But dwarves also know that some scars can’t be seen, and those cut the deepest, bleed the longest and leave the largest scars. The wounds of the mind and spirit are things that few beings will even acknowledge let alone hold enough understanding to heal. The _elves_ certainly haven’t a clue what to do with the wounds of the mind and spirit.”

That got him a chuckle. Weak though it was and Bilbo standing straighter. Not moving away, to Thorin’s delight. But also not failing under the weight of his wounds. Thorin let a hint of a smile play about his lips in content. Continuing, “We understand how difficult it is to heal when life cuts down past flesh and bone. We understand that healing those wounds takes time and comfort. We understand that it takes strength beyond comprehension to bear those injuries while they fester. And fester they will. Sometimes for years, sometimes for decades, sometimes for every moment of every day for the rest of your days. We understand that such wounds can turn a once cheerful companion bitter and resentful. Most of all though, we understand that those on the outside can do nothing but accept those so wounded for the individual they become. 

“Your experiences have changed you. First, with the Company. Then with the dragon, and finally with the Shire. You are not Bilbo Baggins of Bag End who was so enamored with doilies that good humor was lost. Who you are is up to you to decide. The Company will still be beside you when you’ve made your decision. That I can promise you.”

He felt Bilbo nod against his chest again before asking, “And if I decide this isn’t what or where I want?”

Thorin felt a pang at the words. Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath in before saying, “I will respect your decisions, Bilbo. And will miss you fiercely should you leave these halls. You are not a prisoner here. There is no lock baring your way. We… _I_ , love you. Whoever you choose to be and where ever you choose to be it.”

He felt Bilbo nod as the hobbit said, “I’m not going anywhere, you don’t need to hold so tight.” Thorin snorted as he loosened his hold. Soon, far sooner than Thorin was comfortable with, Bilbo _would_ go where Thorin couldn’t follow, and it would break his heart. He said none of this though as the conversation lapsed. There was still time, Thorin could feel it in his bones. Time for Oin to figure something out, or for Bilbo to remember some long forgotten piece of lore that would rekindle hope. There was still time to make memories.


End file.
